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A 



The Viking’s Skull 


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Contents 


PROLOGUE 

Chapter Page 

I. The English Lady ” i 

II. The Runic Ring ii 

III. A Retrospect i8 

IV. Tragedy ! 26 

THE STORY 

I. The Ravengars of Ravenhall .... 44 

II. The Mystery of the Reliquary .... 57 

III. Idris Redivivus 70 

IV. The Secret of the Runic Ring .... 82 

V. The Shadow of the Oft-carried 

Throne ” 92 

VI. “ The Fires of the Asas ! ” 106 

VII. “ Within the Lofty Tomb” 119 

VIII. Lorelie Riviere 132 

IX. Idris Meets A Rival 150 

X. A Little Piece of Steel 165 

XI. The Legend of the Runic Ring .... 178 

XII. Idris Declares His Love 197 

XIII. At Lorelie’s Villa 209 


V 


Contents 


Chapter Pack 

XIV. Told by the Vase 232 

XV. A Packet of Old Letters 245 

XVI. Lorelie at Ravenhall 264 

XVII. The Secret of the Funeral Crypt . . 277 

XVIII. A Craniological Experiment .... 300 

XIX. The Vengeance of the Skull . . . . 318 

XX. Finale 344 


VI 


THE VIKING’S SKULL 


PROLOGUE 

CHAPTER I 

“ THE ENGLISH LADY ” 

O N one of the granitic peninsulas of Western 
Brittany stands the little town of Quilaix, situ- 
ated in a hollow facing the sea. To the ordi- 
nary tourist the place presents few features of interest be- 
yond its ivy-mantled church, whose doors bear the 
counterfeit presentment of fishes carved in oak : which 
fact, when added to the name of the edifice — La Chapelle 
des Pecheurs — serves to indicate the general occupation 
of the inhabitants. 

For the convenience of the fisher-folk an L-shaped 
stone pier has been raised in the sea. The duty of watch- 
ing over this structure, whose stability was often threat- 
ened by the fury of the Atlantic, pertained to Paul 
Marais, familiarly known as << Old Pol,” who, to his office 
of harbour-master added likewise that of collector of the 
customs. 

Paul Marais dwelt in the street called, perhaps by way 
of satire. La Grande. His house was a quaint mixture of 
timber and stone, with dormer lattices set in the red tiles 
of the roof. It leaned against its neighbour for support, 
with every doorway and window-frame out of the perpen- 
dicular. Yet it had stood firm during three centuries, and 
would probably continue to stand during as many more. 
One chill afternoon in March Old Pol was sauntering 
I I 


The Viking’s Skull 

to and fro in front of his house, thoughtfully smoking a 
pipe. After half an hour spent in this pleasant idling he 
suddenly quickened his pace and entered his abode, pass- 
ing to the parlour with its red-tiled sanded floor, where, 
around the bright polished chaufferette sat Madame 
Marais and three or four old dames, all busily knitting, 
and all enjoying those pleasures dear to the heart of 
every Breton woman, to wit, cider and gossip. 

“ Celestine,” said Pol, “ the diligence is coming.” 

Paul Marais,” replied his wife with tart dignity, “ don’t 
be a fool.” 

And Pol, expecting no other answer, whistled softly 
and withdrew. 

To explain madame’s reproof it is necessary to state 
that two or three years previously a gentleman calling 
himself a count had visited Quilaix, and, charmed with ^ 
the old-world air of the place, had dwelt in Pol’s house for 
the space of six months. 

The handsome profit derived by Pol on this occasion 
disposed him to look forward to the coming of other vis- 
itors : but, alas ! Quilaix is too obscure to be mentioned 
in the ordinary manuals issued for the guidance of tour- 
ists. The count’s sojourn was an exception to the nor- 
mal course of events. 

Nevertheless Pol would not abandon hope ; and, day 
by day, he awaited the arrival of the diligence, for the pur- 
pose of inviting the chance stranger to his own dwelling, 
before any other person should have the opportunity of 
appropriating him. 

Everything comes to the man who waits,” muttered 
Pol to himself, as he watched the distant vehicle swaying 
its zigzag course down the hillside road. “ This dili- 
gence is perhaps bringing me a visitor. Who can tell ? ” 

Twilight drew on ; and, as the lamplighter was prepar- 
ing the illumination of La Rue Grande by the primitive 

2 


‘‘The English Lady’’ 


method of fixing an oil-lantern to the middle of a rope 
slung across the street, the diligence came up, but instead 
of going on as usual to the auberge in the little market 
square, the driver stopped short in front of Pol’s house, 
and there alighted a young lady accompanied by a little 
boy, a child of two years. 

“ Madame Marais lives here?” she asked with an in- 
quiring glance at Pol. 

“ My wife’s name,” replied Pol. He pocketed his pipe, 
doffed his cap, and bowed profoundly. ** Permit me to 
lead you to hert — By the saints,” he muttered to himself, 
a boarder at last, or may I lose my harbour-mastership. 
Now, Celestine, it is my turn to laugh at you.” 

The young lady, holding the child by the hand, fol- 
lowed Pol to the parlour. 

“ God bless you all, great and small,” she said, using 
the greeting customary in that part of Brittany. 

** Heaven bless you, too, stranger, whoever you may 
be,” replied all, as they rose and curtsied. 

This intercourse was conducted in the Breton tongue, 
the guttural voices of Madame Marais and her compan- 
ions forming a marked contrast with the sweet voice of 
the stranger. 

“ Can one have apartments here ? The voiturier has 
assured me that one can.” 

Pol, about to reply with an eager affirmative, was 
checked by a glance from his more cautious spouse, who 
was not disposed to give herself away too easily or too 
cheaply. 

It is not our custom to accommodate visitors,” she re- 
plied, speaking with great dignity. “ At least, not as a 
rule. But still with a little trouble we might arrange. 
How many rooms does madame require. Would four 
be ” 


** That number will do. Will you let me see them ? ” 
3 


The Viking’s Skull 

After a brief inspection the lady expressed her ap- 
proval, being especially pleased with the sitting-room, an 
apartment marked by a charming air of antiquity. The 
oak flooring and pannelling were black with age. Within 
the huge fireplace an ox could have been roasted whole. 
Over the carved mantel was a boar’s head, a trophy 
gained by Pol in a hunting expedition among the Breton 
hills. On a dark oaken press an ivory crucifix, browned 
by time, imparted a sort of solemnity to the place. 

Terms were arranged; and the lady’s luggage was 
brought in and deposited up-stairs by the strong arm of 
Pol himself. 

“ How long is madame likely to remain here ? ” asked 
the harbour-master’s wife, lingering with her hand on the 
handle of the sitting-room door. 

“ Months. Years, perhaps,” replied the stranger with 
a sad smile. “ That is,” she went on, ‘‘ if you are willing 
to let me stay so long.” 

“ And madame’s name is ? ” 

“ Edith Breakspear.” 

“ Breakspear ? Then madame is not French ? ” ex- 
claimed the harbour-master’s wife, wondering to what 
nationality she should ascribe the name. 

** No, I am English,” said the lady, with a faint touch 
of pride in her voice. 

“ Madame speaks the Breton like an angel.” 

I have lived a long time in Brittany.” 

** Ah ! madame loves Brittany,” said the other, who 
like all Bretons was intensely patriotic. « The climate re- 
minds her of her own land. We Bretons came from Eng- 
land. Centuries ago. And when we came we brought 
the weather with us. Is it not so ? ” 

And with these words she smiled herself out of the 
room, and went down-stairs to discuss the event with her 
cronies. 


4 


^‘The English Lady” 


**She is going to pay me four Napoleons a week. 
Think of that now ! It is more than the count ever gave. 
Ah^ del! but if I had been wearing my best Sunday cap 
with its point lace and gold embroidery I could have 
asked double. But how could one ask more with only a 
plain white cap on, and a necklace of blue beads ? ” 

As may be guessed, the coming of a stranger into the 
little world of Quilaix set the tongues of all the gossips 
wagging. The men were as much interested as the 
women, and various were the surmises of the nightly 
frequenters of the Auberge des Pecheurs as to her previous 
history. But of this they could learn nothing. Mrs. 
Breakspear let fall no word as to her past, and even 
Madame Marais' keen eyes failed to penetrate the veil of 
mystery that undoubtedly hung around “ The English 
lady.” 

Mrs. Breakspear had not seen more than twenty-one 
summers ; she was in truth so girlish in appearance that 
the people of Quilaix could scarcely bring their lips to use 
the matronly “ Madame,” but more frequently addressed 
her as “ Mademoiselle.” It was clear that some secret 
sorrow was casting its shadow over her young life. Her 
pale face and subdued air, the sad expression in her eyes, 
were the visible tokens of a grief, too strong to be re- 
pressed or forgotten. 

As she was always dressed in black the gossips con- 
cluded that she was in mourning, the general opinion 
being that she had recently lost her husband, though a 
few ill-natured persons sneered at the word “ husband,” in 
spite of her gold wedding-ring. 

Mrs. Breakspear made no attempt to form friendships. 
Firmly, yet without hauteur, she repelled all advances, 
from whatever quarter they came. She seemed to desire 
no other companionship than that of her child, Idris. 
He was evidently the one being that reconciled her to life. 

5 


The Viking’s Skull 

Thus passed five years : and Mrs. Breakspear, though 
still as great a mystery as ever to the people of Quilaix, 
ceased to occupy the chief place in their gossip. 

Idris was now seven years old, a handsome little fellow, 
endowed with an intelligence beyond his years. 

His education was undertaken solely by his mother, 
concerning whom the opinion went, that, in the matter of 
learning, she was equal, if not superior, to Monsieur le 
Cure, the only other person in the place with any pre- 
tensions to scholarship. 

At the back of Quilaix rises the moorland, an extensive 
wind-swept region, blossoming in early summer with the 
beautiful broom that furnished our first Plantagenet with 
his crest and surname. Over this brown, purple-dotted 
expanse run two white lines intersecting each other in the 
shape of the letter X. These lines indicate the only two 
roads over the moor; and, just at the point of inter- 
section, there stands an irregular block of grey stone 
buildings. 

The part of the moorland immediately above the town 
was the usual place of study, that is, whenever the day 
was warm and sunny. Then, mother and son would 
climb to some high point, and seat themselves on the 
grass ; and while the boy, with the breeze of heaven lift- 
ing the curls from his temples, would endeavour to fix 
his eyes on his books, Mrs. Breakspear would fix hers 
on the grey stone building. Nothing else on land or sea 
seemed to have any interest for her. The distant and 
beautiful hills would often change their colour from grey 
to violet beneath the alternation of sunshine and cloud : 
ships with their fair sails set would glide daily from the 
haven of Quilaix ; bands of Catholic pilgrims, bound for 
some local shrine, would occasionally cross the moor- 
land, carrying banners and singing hymns: sea-gulls 
would wheel their screaming flight aloft : trout leap and 

6 


^‘The English Lady’’ 


gleam in the brook at her feet. But Mrs. Breakspear had 
eyes for none of these things. Her attention, when not 
given to Idris and his book, was set upon the lone, dun 
edifice. 

On certain days human figures, dwarfed by the dis- 
tance, would issue from the building, spreading themselves 
in little groups over the landscape ; and, after remaining 
out some hours, would return upon the firing of a gun. 
At such times Mrs. Breakspear would clasp her hands and 
gaze wistfully on the distant moving figures. 

One day her emotion was too great to escape the boy's 
notice : and, following the direction of her eyes, he said, 
speaking in English, the language used by them when 
alone ; — 

Mother, what are those men doing ? ” 

“ They are quarrying stone.” 

What for? ” 

** Well, to make churches with, for one thing,” replied 
the mother, with a curious smile. 

“ What ! churches like that ? ” 

And Idris pointed to the Chapelle des PecheurSy which 
glowed in the setting sunlight like sculptured bronze. 

** Yes : they quarry the stone and shape it into blocks, 
which are then sent to Nantes, or Paris, or wherever 
wanted, and fitted together.” 

Idris was silent for a few moments, turning the infor- 
mation over in his mind. 

** They must be good men to make churches,” he 
presently remarked. 

On the contrary, they are bad men.” 

Idris was puzzled at this, being evidently of opinion 
that the character of the work sanctified the workers. 

“ Then why do they cut stone for churches ? ” 

** Because they are made to do so by other men who 
watch to see that the work is done.” 

7 


The Viking’s Skull 

Idris becoming more puzzled at this compulsory state 
of labour, returned to the moral character of the workers. 

“ Are they all bad — every one ? ” 

No; not all/’ exclaimed his mother, with an energy 
that quite surprised the little fellow. “ There is one there 
who is the best, the truest, the noblest of men.” 

Her eyes sparkled, and a beautiful colour burned on 
her cheek. She sat with a proud air as if defying the 
world to say the contrary. 

“ Is he as good as father was ? ” 

About the same,” replied Mrs. Breakspear, her features 
softening into a smile. 

“ Why, you have said that no one was ever so good as 
father.” 

“ Have I ? Well, this man is. There is no difference 
between them.” 

“ If he is so good, why has he to work among all those 
bad men ? ” 

“ Some day, child, you shall know,” replied his mother, 
folding him within her arms. Don’t ask any more 
questions, Idie.” 

“ Why doesn’t he run away ? ” persisted the little 
fellow. 

Because soldiers are there, who would shoot him down 
if he tried to escape,” said Mrs. Breakspear with a shud- 
der. “ Come, let us be going. It is growing cold. See 
how the mist is rising ! ” 

The boom of a distant gun was rolling faintly over the 
moorland. A fog creeping up from the sea curtained the 
prison from view as they turned to descend the slope that 
led to Quilaix. 

It was market-day. Buying and selling had now come 
to an end, but many persons still lingered in the square, 
chiefly natives from remote districts. “ Robinson Cru- 
soes,” Idris called them, nor was the name inappropriate. 

8 


^‘The English Lady’’ 


Clad in garments of goatskin with the hairy side turned 
outwards, and with long tresses hanging like manes from 
beneath their broad-brimmed hats, they might have been 
taken for wild men of the woods : a wildness that was in 
appearance only, for no one is more tender-hearted than 
the Breton peasant. 

Suddenly there was a movement among them, and it 
could be seen that they were forming a circle around a 
man who had just made his appearance. The maidens, 
who were beating and washing clothes in the stream that 
flowed along one side of the square, ceased their work 
and came running up to the circle, their wooden sabots 
sounding upon the stone pavement. 

The cause of all this commotion was a man belonging 
to a class, formerly more common in Brittany than now- 
adays, the class called Kloers or itinerant minstrels, who 
recite verses of their own composing upon any topic that 
happens to be uppermost in the public mind, accompany- 
ing their rude improvisation upon the three-stringed 
rebec. 

** It is Andre the Kloer,” cried Idris gleefully, who had 
caught a glimpse of the minstrel. “ Let us listen. He 
will tell us some fine stories.” 

The Kloer having glanced towards the ground at his 
hat, which contained several sous, said : — 

** For your help, friends, many thanks. I will now re- 
cite ‘ Tke Ballad of the Ring! a ballad dealing with a 
murder that happened some years ago at Nantes.” 

The minstrel spoke in the language of the province, a 
language which Idris understood as well as any Breton 
boy of his own age. The word “ murder ” gave promise 
of something exciting. He glanced up at his mother, 
supposing that she, too, would be equally interested in 
the coming story : but, to his surprise, he saw that her 
face had become whiter than usual — that it wore a 

9 


The Viking’s Skull 

strange look, a look of fear, a look he had never before 
seen. The hand that held his own was trembling, and, 
in a voice so changed from its ordinary tone as to be 
scarcely recognizable, she said : — 

“ Home, Idie, let us go home.” 

Suddenly the Kloer paused in the midst of his speak- 
ing. A tender expression came over his face ; a gentle 
light shone from his eyes, and with hand solemnly up- 
lifted, he said : — 

“ Christian brethren, ere we go further let us all say a 
Pater and a De Profundis for the assassin as well as for 
his victim.” 

In a moment his hearers with spontaneous and genuine 
piety were kneeling upon the pavement, their heads 
bowed, their hats doffed, while the Kloer, after making 
the sign of the cross, began to say the prayers. 

As Idris and his mother alone remained standing the 
attention of the minstrel was naturally drawn to them. 
No sooner did his eyes fall upon Mrs. Breakspear than a 
change came over him. His look of solemnity was suc- 
ceeded by one of wonderment, and after stammering out 
a few broken phrases, which, though intended as pious 
petitions to Heaven, conveyed scarcely any meaning to 
his hearers, he brought his prayer to an abrupt conclusion. 

Good folk,” he cried, I will not give you ‘ The Bal- 
lad of the Ring! It is too mournful. It would sadden 
the hearts of some who are present.” 

Mrs. Breakspear tightened her grasp on the wrist of 
Idris, and, much to his grief, drew him away from the 
presence of the Kloer, and hurried him onward to Pol’s 
house. 


10 


CHAPTER II 


THE RUNIC RING 

T hat same evening Idris lay reading on the 
hearth-rug before a bright fire. Since their re- 
turn from the moorland he had found his mother 
unusually quiet, and he had therefore turned for com- 
panionship to his favourite book, The Life of King 
Alfred!' Having reared the volume against a footstool 
he rested his elbows upon the floor, and his chin upon 
his hands, and in this attitude was soon absorbed in the 
doings of the Saxon hero. 

Suddenly he looked up and addressed his mother, who 
was sitting in an armchair watching him. 

<< Mother, what are runes ? ” 

What was there in this simple question to startle Mrs. 
Breakspear, for startled she certainly was ? 

<< Why do you wish to know ? Who has been talking 
to you about runes ? ” 

“ This book says that the Vikings used to carve runes 
on the prows of their galleys. What are runes ? " 

The mother's face lost its look of alarm, yet it was 
with some hesitancy that she replied, They were letters 
used in olden times by the nations of the north." 

<< But how could letters carved on the prow protect 
the vessel ? " 

What a pair of earnest dark eyes were those fixed that 
moment upon the mother’s face ! 

“ Well, as a matter of fact, they couldn’t. But men 
fancied that they could. They were very superstitious in 
those days." 


II 


The Viking^s Skull 

As Idris showed a desire for further knowledge, his 
mother continued: — ‘‘The old Norsemen believed that 
these letters when pronounced in a certain order would 
have a magical effect. Some runes would stop the course 
of the wind : others would cause an enemy’s sword to 
break. Some would make the captive’s chains fall off : 
and others again would cause the dead to come forth 
from the tomb and speak. But you know, dear Idie, all 
this is not true. The runic letters have no such power. 
But the old Norse people believed so much in the virtue 
of these characters that they engraved them on the walls 
of their dwellings, on their armour, on their ships, on 
anything, in fact, which they wished to protect.” 

“ Were these letters like ours in shape ? ” 

“ Very different. You would like to see some Norse 
runes ? ” 

Mrs. Breakspear rose, and going to an oak press pro- 
duced a small ebony casket, whose exterior was decorated 
with miniature carvings of Norse warriors engaged in 
combat. 

Seating herself upon the hearth-rug beside the little 
fellow she unlocked the casket and lifted the lid. Within, 
upon the blue satin lining, there lay a silver ring, meas- 
uring about eight inches in circumference, and obviously 
of antique workmanship. 

“This,” said Mrs. Breakspear, “ is a very old runic ring.” 

“ How old ? ” 

“ More than two thousand years old. Tradition says 
that it was made by Odin himself. Do you know who 
he was, Idie ? ” 

“ The book calls him an imaginary deity. What does 
that mean ? ” 

“ It means a god who never lived.” 

“ Then how can the ring have been made by Odin if 
there never was an Odin ? ” 


12 


The Runic Ring 

** Odin, the god, is, of course, a fable ; but Odin, the 
man, may have had a real existence. He was, so the 
wise tell us, a warrior, priest, and king of the North, who 
after death was worshipped as a deity. The legend states 
that, having made up his mind to die, Odin gave to him- 
self nine wounds in the form of a circle, guiding the point 
of his spear by this ring, which was laid on his breast for 
that purpose. The ring thus became sacred in the eyes 
of his children and descendants : and they showed their 
reverence for it by using it as an altar-ring in their relig- 
ious ceremonies. Guthrum, the famous Danish warrior, 
was of Odin’s race, and this is said to have been the iden- 
tical holy ring, celebrated in history, upon which he and 
his Vikings swore to quit the kingdom of Alfred.” 

Idris listened with breathless interest. Guthrum ! 
Alfred ! Odin ! To think that his mother should pos- 
sess a ring that had once belonged to these exalted char- 
acters ! It was wonderful ! If the relic were gifted with 
memory and speech what an interesting story it might 
unfold ! 

He turned the ring over in his hands. How massive 
it was ! None of your modern, hollow bangles, but solid 
and weighty. The ancient silversmith had not been 
sparing of the metal. 

Oh, couldn’t we make a lot of franc-pieces out of it!” 
cried Idris. 

The outer perimeter of the ring was enamelled with 
purple, and decorated with a four-line inscription of tiny 
runic letters in gold, so clear and distinct in outline, that 
a runologist would have had no difficulty in reading 
them ; though whether the characters, when read, would 
have yielded any meaning, is a different matter. 

** Are these the runes ? ” asked Idris, pointing to them. 
« What funny looking things ! Here is one like an 
arrow, and here it is again, and again. Why, some of 

13 


The Viking’s Skull 

them are like our letters. Here is one like a B, and here 
is an R, and an X. What does all this writing mean, 
mother ? ” 

“No one has ever yet been able to interpret it. When 
you are older, Idie, you shall study runes, and then per- 
haps you will be able to explain the meaning.” 

Idris knitted his little brows over the inscription as if 
desirous of solving the enigma there and then, without 
waiting till manhood’s days. 

“ Did Odin engrave these letters ? ” he asked. 

“ He may have done so. He is said to have been the 
inventor of runes, you know.” 

As Idris turned the ring around in his hand his eye 
became attracted by a broad, black stain on the inner 
perimeter. 

“ What is this dark mark ? ” 

His mother hesitated ere replying : — ■ 

“ It is perhaps a blood-stain.” 

“ Why isn’t it red like blood ? ” 

“ A blood-stain soon turns black. I have said that 
this was an altar-ring. Let me tell you what is meant by 
that. You know if you go into La Chapelle des Pecheurs 
you will see upon the altar a — what, Idie ? ” 

“ A crucifix,” was the prompt reply. 

“ Well, if you had gone into any temple of the North- 
men — and their temples were often nothing more than a 
circle of tall stones in the depth of a forest — you would 
have seen on their altar a large silver ring. And just as 
Catholics nowadays kiss a crucifix and swear to speak the 
truth, so in old Norse times men employed a ring for the 
same purpose. Before they took the oath the ring was 
dipped in the blood of the sacrifice. Then if a man 
broke his word it was believed that the god to whom 
the sacrifice had been offered would most surely punish 
him.” 


14 


The Runic Ring 

The book that Idris had been reading contained an ac- 
count of the Norse mode of sacrificing: and so with his 
eye still on the dark stain, he said : — 

“ Mother, didn’t the old Norsemen sometimes offer up 
men on their altars ? ” 

‘‘ Sometimes they did.” 

** Then this stain may be a man’s blood ? ” 

“ It is very likely.” 

“ Perhaps the very blood of Odin, made when he gave 
himself the nine wounds,” said Idris, in a tone of glee, 
and fascinated by the ring, as children often are fasci- 
nated by things gruesome. “ What a long time the stain 
has lasted ! But it can’t be Odin’s blood,” he continued, 
with an air of mournfulness : the stain would have 
worn off long ago. — I would like to know whose blood 
it is ! ” 

Hush ! Hush ! We do not yet know that it is 
human blood. Come, you must not talk any more 
about such dreadful things.” 

And sensible that the conversation had taken a turn 
not at all suited to a tender mind, Mrs. Breakspear tried 
to divert his thoughts. Putting away the altar-ring, she 
seated herself beside him, and drawing him partly within 
her embrace, she said, “ Now what shall I talk about ? ” 
— which was her usual preface when beginning his in- 
struction in history, geography, and the like. 

“ Tell me about Vikings — all about them,” he replied 
with the air of one capable of taking in the whole cycle 
of Scandinavian lore. 

As Mrs. Breakspear had made a study of Northern 
history, she was able to gratify her little son’s request by 
regaling him with a variety of tales drawn from Icelandic 
sagas and early Saxon chronicles. For more than two 
hours Idris sat entranced, listening to the doings, good 
and bad, of the famous sea-kings of old. 

15 


The Viking’s Skull 

** I wish,” he cried, when his mother had finished her 
stories for the night, ‘‘ I wish /were a Viking, like Mr. 
Rollo and Mr. Eric the Red. It would be fine.” 

For several days Idris would listen to no history that 
did not relate to Vikings. He took likewise to drawing 
Norse galleys from his mother’s description of them, 
giving to every vessel the orthodox raven-standard, 
dragon-prow, and a row of shields hung all around above 
the water-line. And he somewhat startled the good 
Cure of Quilaix, who had made a morning-call upon 
Mrs. Breakspear : for when told to hand the reverend 
gentleman a glass of wine, he held the drink aloft with 
the cry of “ Skoal to the Northland, skoal ! ” adding im- 
mediately afterwards, “ Runes ! runes ! I wish some one 
would teach me how to read runes. Won’t you, mon- 
sieur ? ” 

Runes ! Monsieur le Cure had had a reputation for 
scholarship once upon a time : but thirty years inces- 
santly spent in doing good among the people of his 
parish had left him so little time for study that he could 
now read his Greek Testament only by the aid of the 
French translation. 

And why do you wish to learn runes, my little 
man ? ” he said, patting the boy on the head. 

“Because — because ” began Idris; but, observ- 

ing that his mother was pressing her finger upon her lip 
as a sign for him to be silent, he stopped short, and Mrs. 
Breakspear adroitly turned the conversation to other mat- 
ters. After the departure of the Cure, she said : — 

“ Idie, you must never let any one know that we have 
that runic ring in our possession.” 

“ Why not ? ” he asked in surprise. 

“ Because there are men who desire to lay their hands 
upon it, and if they learn that it is in this house they 
may try to steal it ; nay, will perhaps kill us in order to 
i6 


The Runic Ring 

obtain it. The ring has been the cause of one murder, 
and if you speak of it out of doors it may be the cause 
of another. Remember, then, you must not mention the 
ring to any one. Remember, remember ! ” 


CHAPTER III 


A RETROSPECT 

I DRIS slept in a room the window of which, being a 
dormer one, overlooked the roofs of the other 
houses, and gave him an interrupted view of the 

sea. 

One morning, as soon as he had drawn the curtain, 
he came running to his mother’s room with the news : — 
“ Oh, mother, come and look. There’s a pretty little 
ship in the bay.” 

So, to please him, Mrs. Breakspear stepped from her 
lit clos, or cupboard bed, and stole, even as she was, in 
her night-robe, to take a view of the vessel. 

“ See, there it is,” cried Idris, excitedly pointing it out. 
“ Is it a Viking ship, mother ? ” 

There are no Vikings nowadays,” was the reply, a 
reply which Idris took as a proof of the degeneracy of 
the times. It is a yacht.” 

As this term conveyed no more enlightenment to Idris’ 
mind than if she had said that it was a quinquireme, he 
naturally asked, “ What is a yacht ? ” 

The explanation was deferred till breakfast-time, when 
his mother entered into the meaning of the term. Idris 
made a somewhat hasty meal, being eager to run off to 
the quay for the purpose of taking a nearer view of the 
newly-arrived vessel. 

Dancing down the stairs of the old house into the 
street he made for the end of the stone pier, and sitting 
down at the head of the steps he took a long survey 
of the yacht, wondering whether it equalled in point 

i8 


A Retrospect 

of swiftness and beauty the famous Long Serpent of Olaf, 
built by that master-shipwright, Thorberg. 

A boat was rapidly making its way from the vessel to 
the harbour. Idris recognized it as the revenue-cutter, 
at the tiller of which sat Old Pol himself. 

“ Ha ! Master Idris,” he said, as soon as he had 
mounted the stairs, what a pity you were not out an 
hour earlier ! You could then have gone with us to yon 
vessel.” And then, turning to those who had accom- 
panied him, he remarked : “ So Captain Rochefort is the 

owner of that yacht. Well, everybody has heard of 
him : one of the bravest in the Emperor’s service, and 
an officer of the Legion of Honour. Nothing wrong 
with that craft, eh, Baptiste ? ” 

“ Humph ! ” growled the man addressed, a grizzled old 
coastguard with a saturnine cast of countenance. “ So 
they have put Captain Rochefort ashore at Port St. 
Reme, and he is coming on foot to Quilaix. But if the 
Captain wants to visit Quilaix, why does he not come 
with the yacht, instead of walking over the moorland ? ” 

“ Why, Baptiste, you talk like one who is suspicious,” 
remarked Pol in surprise. 

“And I am suspicious. There’s something wrong in 
the wind. Harbour-master, listen to me. As every- 
body in Quilaix is going to the Pardon to-day the town 
will be deserted until a late hour. The night will be 
dark, as this is the time of no moon. Captain Rochefort 
has been put ashore in order to signal the favourable 
moment. They are going to run a cargo.” 

This statement was received by Pol with a burst of 
laughter. 

“ Baptiste, you talk like a fool. What cargo can such 
a small craft carry ? Besides, they have no cargo. Did 
we not overhaul her thoroughly ? Captain Rochefort a 
contrabandist ! A military officer hazard his reputation 

19 


The Viking’s Skull 

in a smuggling venture ! Impossible ! He would have 
everything to lose and nothing to gain by such a 
course.” 

Baptiste, by a shake of his head, implied that he was 
not to be moved from his opinion. 

“ Very well, Baptiste, since you are so suspicious, we 
had better put you on the watch for the next twenty- 
four hours.” 

“ I intend to watch, whether put on or not. And by 
the key of Saint Tugean I shall have discovered some- 
thing before to-morrow morning comes.” 

“ Undoubtedly. You will discover that you would 
have acted more wisely by going with us to the Pardon 
to-day. That’s the ticket for me. Life is sad : then let us 
not miss any of its gaieties. And in all Finistere there 
are no pancakes and cider like those of St. Reme.” 

The rest of the coastguard, murmuring their approval 
of these sentiments, dispersed in order to prepare for the 
Pardon, or church-festival, to be held that day in a dis- 
tant village ; of which festival the harbour-master’s wife 
had, on the previous evening, drawn so pleasant a fore- 
cast in the hearing of Idris, that the little fellow had felt 
great disappointment on learning that his mother in- 
tended to take no part in the celebration. 

Madame Marais had been somewhat troubled by the 
question as to how her tenant’s meals were to be pre- 
pared during her absence, but Mrs. Breakspear had 
solved this difficulty by offering to arrange for herself. 

Meantime Idris, still at the head of the pier-steps, con- 
tinued his survey of the vessel. 

A piece of canvas hanging over the taffrail was 
suddenly drawn up by a sailor on board, an act that en- 
abled Idris to see the name of the yacht painted in big 
black letters. 

N-E-M-E-S-I-S. 


20 


A Retrospect 

Nemesis! This was a word new to him. He had 
known sailors call their boats Marie, Isabelle, Jeanne, 
and the like, with various epithets prefixed, as jolie, belle, 
and petite, but never Nemesis. He could not tell 
whether it was the name of man or woman : so, on re- 
turning home, he sought enlightenment of his mother. 

“ It’s a curious name to give to a ship,” commented 
the little fellow thoughtfully, after Mrs. Breakspear had 
tried to explain the meaning of the term. Why do 
they call it that ? Are they going to take vengeance on 
somebody ? ” 

Shortly afterwards Madame Marais came out of her 
house, wearing the wonderful lace cap that had de- 
scended to her through several generations. Leaning 
upon the arm of Old Pol, who was likewise gorgeously 
arrayed, she moved off in great state to take her place 
in the line of the procession which, under the direction 
of Monsieur le Cure, was slowly forming before the 
porch of La Chapelle des Pecheurs. 

When all preliminaries had been satisfactorily com- 
pleted, the simple-hearted peasants, with flags flying and 
pipes playing, set off on their pilgrimage, walking at a 
somewhat leisurely pace, for your true Breton is seldom 
in a hurry. 

Idris, regretting that he could not accompany them, 
clambered to an eminence on the moorland, where, aided 
by his mother’s opera-glasses, he watched the course of 
the procession till it faded from view. 

Nearly everybody in Quilaix had gone off to this 
Pardon. All the shops were closed, and the town was 
as silent as on a Sunday morning during the time of 
high mass. A few of the fishermen and of the coast- 
guard had indeed remained behind, but these were 
slumbering in the shadow of the sardine-boats drawn 
high up on the beach. From these slumberers must be 

21 


The Viking's Skull 

excepted old Baptiste Malet, who throughout the day 
glided to and fro along the shore, now and then dropping 
behind a rock to take a scrutiny of the yacht by the aid 
of a telescope nearly as long as himself. 

The Nemesis still remained at the point where the 
anchor had first been cast. She was certainly a mysteri- 
ous vessel; none of her occupants had come ashore: 
none could be seen on deck. It was quite clear that for 
some reason or other the crew shrank from the observa- 
tion of those on land. 

A gala-day it may have been for others, but for Idris 
it proved a somewhat dull time. His mother seemed too 
much preoccupied to set him his regular lessons : or per- 
haps she did not deem it fair to put him to study while 
others were festively engaged. She sat during the greater 
part of the day turning over the leaves of a large scrap- 
book filled with newspaper cuttings — a book which Idris 
was never permitted to see, Mrs. Breakspear being accus- 
tomed, as soon as her readings were ended, to lock the 
volume within a drawer of the old oak press. She had 
read these extracts so often as to be able to recite the 
greater part of them by heart : nevertheless, she con- 
tinued to con them daily, as if they were quite new to 
her, though their perusal must have given her pain. 

The first of these newspaper extracts was a long article 
from the journal L Eioile de la Bretagne^ worded as 
follows : — 

Let us review the facts of this remarkable case. 

“ Eric Marville is a gentleman of English birth who 
settled at Nantes in the spring of 1866. Of handsome 
person and polished manners, speaking our language with 
the ease of a native, and recently married to a rich and 
beautiful wife, M. Marville soon became a favourite in 
the higher circles of Nantes society. The Armorique 

22 


A Retrospect 

Club, the most fashionable of its kind, admitted him to 
membership. It would have been well had M. Marville 
never entered the salons of this establishment, since it 
was here that he first met Henri Duchesne. The latter 
by all accounts was a professional gamester, though up 
to the present time nothing dishonourable has been 
proved in connection with his play. 

“ From the very first these two men, Eric Marville and 
Henri Duchesne, for some unknown reason, appear to 
have been in a state of secret hostility to each other, 
hostility which finally developed into open rupture. A 
remark uttered by Marville one evening, and doubtless 
uttered with no ill intent, on the wonderful luck attend- 
ing M. Duchesne at cards, was interpreted by the latter 
as a reflection upon his mode of playing, and he imme- 
diately challenged the other to a duel. M. Marville 
merely shrugged his shoulders with the words : — ‘ It is 
not the fashion of my countrymen, monsieur, to fight a 
duel over trifles.’ * Do you call the honour of my name 
a trifle ? ’ exclaimed Duchesne, at the same time con- 
temptuously flinging a glass of wine in Marville’s face. 

“ In a moment the club was in an uproar, the friends 
of each striving to keep the two men apart, an object 
successfully accomplished. All eflbrts, however, to effect 
a reconciliation failed, and the two men left the club 
avowedly enemies. 

The next evening M. Marville was again present at 
the Amorique Club, but, confining himself to the news- 
papers and political gossip, took no part in the play that 
went on. M. Duchesne was likewise present, and entered 
the lists against M. Montagne, a young lieutenant of 
Chasseurs. The usual good fortune attended Duchesne, 
and his opponent having lost all the money upon his 
person, said : — ‘I have one more stake, if M. Duchesne 
does not object to play against it.’ And with these 

23 


The Viking’s Skull 

words Montague drew forth a large silver circlet having 
every appearance, according to an antiquary who was 
present, of being an altar-ring, such as was used in the 
religious rites of ancient Scandinavia. 

“ M. Marville, happening to set eyes upon this circlet, 
became singularly agitated; and, stepping up to the 
table where the two men were at play, he said, address- 
ing Montagne : ^ How came you by that ring ? ’ M. 

Montagne, absorbed in the play, or perhaps deeming the 
question an impertinent one, made no reply. The play 
resulted in the transference of the ring to the pockets of 
M. Duchesne, who shortly afterwards took his departure. 
Five minutes later M. Marville likewise quitted the club, 
and, on being asked by a friend why he left earlier than 
usual, replied : — ‘ To recover my ring.’ 

Two hours afterwards, a sergent-de-ville^ going his 
accustomed round, heard cries for help coming from the 
Place Graslin, and on running to the spot found M. 
Duchesne lying on the pavement with blood flowing 
from a wound in the breast. M. Marville was kneeling 
beside him and calling for help. 

The injured man was at once removed to the adjacent 
surgery of M. Rosaire, who, upon examination, found 
that life had fled. 

“ The body was conveyed to the Prefecture, accom- 
panied by M. Marville, who gave evidence as to the find- 
ing of it. His statement amounted to no more than that 
in walking homewards he had come by accident upon the 
body of the fallen man. 

“The high position held by M. Marville, and his 
plausible explanation of the situation in which he had 
been found by the sergent-de-ville, prevented the authori- 
ties from attaching suspicion to him, and on giving his 
recognizances to appear when required, M. Marville was 
allowed to depart. 


24 


A Retrospect 

** But the investigations carried on next day gave a 
different turn to the affair. The quarrel at the Armoriquc 
Club and the threatening language of the two men were 
recalled. Marville’s remark on leaving the club in the 
wake of M. Duchesne to the effect that he was going to 
recover the ring seemed to supply an additional motive 
for the deed, especially when taken in conjunction with 
the fact that though M. Duchesne’s money and jewellery 
were untouched the ring itself was missing. 

“ But the most significant circumstance of all was the 
finding of the dagger with which the murder had been 
effected. Shown to M. Lenoir, the well-known dealer in 
antiquities, whose establishment is in the Rue Crebillon, 
he identified it as one that had been purchased from him 
by M. Marville on the morning of the day on which the 
crime took place. The weapon is an Italian stiletto, one 
warranted to have belonged originally to the famous 
bravo, Michele Pezza, better known to frequenters of the 
opera as Fra Diavolo. M. Lenoir mentioned this cir- 
cumstance as he handed the weapon to the purchaser, 
adding : — * It is a dagger that has shed the blood of 
Frenchmen.’ — ‘And may do so again,’ was the singular 
reply of M. Marville. 

“ These circumstances seem to justify the arrest of M. 
Marville, who now stands charged with the murder of M. 
Duchesne. 

“ A peculiar feature of the case is the vanishing of the 
altar-ring. The prisoner declines to make any statement 
respecting it, and though his house has been searched no 
trace of it can be discovered.” 

* 5K 3|« * * 

Mrs. Breakspear put away the book with a heavy sigh. 

“ Ah, Eric ! ” she murmured. “ Will your innocence 
ever be established ? ” 


25 


CHAPTER IV 

TRAGEDY ! 

M rs. BREAKSPEAR sat by the open case- 
ment enjoying the deep beauty of the even- 
ing. The air was still and clear, and over the 
bay hung one star sparkling in a sapphire sky. 

Idris, seated with her, had eyes for nothing but the 
yacht Nemesis f which still lay out in the offing, rising and 
falling with the motion of the tide, and showing a tiny 
light at the stern. 

“ Look, mother ! " he cried suddenly. “ They are put- 
ting out a boat.” 

By the faint starlight they could see in the boat seven 
men, one of whom steered while the rest rowed. Their 
garb was that of ordinary French seamen, but Mrs. 
Breakspear noticed with surprise that each was armed 
with cutlass and pistol. 

** Why are they not coming to the harbour ? ” asked 
Idris, a question which found an echo in his mother’s 
mind. 

The boat glided smoothly on, and finally vanished be- 
hind the cliffs to the east of the town. 

“ I wonder whether old Baptiste is watching them ? ” 
said Idris. « He said that the men in the yacht were 
smugglers, and that they would come ashore this even- 
ing. And sure enough they’ve come.” 

If the men in that boat are smugglers, don’t you 
think, Idie, that they would wait till it is much darker ? ” 
Idris was forced to admit the reasonableness of this re- 
mark. 


26 


Tragedy ! 

** Why are they all wearing swords ? Perhaps they are 
Vikings, after all ? " he went on, loth to believe that such 
heroes had vanished from the earth. 

His mother shook her head in mild protest, not know- 
ing that there was a good deal of latter-day Vikingism 
in the enterprise that was taking these seven men 
ashore. 

Now as Mrs. Breakspear sat in the silence and solem- 
nity of the deepening twilight she became subject to a 
feeling the like of which she had never before exper- 
ienced. A vague awe, a presentiment of coming ill, 
stole over her ; and, yielding to its influence, she resolved, 
before it should be too late, to carry out a purpose she 
had long had in mind. 

Idie,” she said, closing the casement and moving to 
the fireplace, “ come and sit here. I have something to 
tell you.” 

Wondering much at her grave manner the little fellow 
obeyed. 

“ Idie,” she began, “ you have been taught to believe 
that your father died when you were an infant. I have 
told you this, thinking it right that you should know 
nothing of his sad history. But, sooner or later, you are 
sure to hear it from others : told, too, in a way that I 
would not have you believe. Therefore it is better that 
you should hear the story from me : and remember to 
take these words of mine for your guidance in all future 
years : and if men should speak ill of your father, do not 
believe them : for who should know him better than I, 
his wife ? ” 

She paused for a moment : and Idris, new to this sort 
of language, made, no reply. 

** Idie, your father is not dead.” 

Idris’ eyes became big with wonder. 

“ Then why doesn’t he live with us ? ” he asked. 

27 


The Viking’s Skull 

Because/' replied his mother, sinking her voice to a 
whisper, “ because he is in prison.” 

As prison is a place usually associated with crime, Idris 
naturally received a shock, which his mother was not slow 
to perceive. 

“ Idie, you know something of history, and therefore 
you know that many a good man has found himself in 
prison before to-day.” 

“ O yes : there was Sir Walter Raleigh, and that Earl 
of Surrey who was a poet : and — and — I can’t think of 
any more at present, but I can find them in the book.” 

“ Well, your father, like many others in history, is 
suffering unjustly.” 

“ What do they say he did ? ” 

“ They say,” replied his mother, once more sinking her 
voice to a whisper, “ they say he committed murder. 
But he did not : he did not : he did not. I have his word 
that he is innocent. I will set his word against all the 
rest of the world.” 

How long is he to remain in prison ? ” 

“He is never to come out,” replied Mrs. Breakspear ; 
and, unable to control her emotion, she burst into a fit of 
sobbing. 

Idris, touched by the sight of his mother’s grief, began 
to cry also. Now for the first time he understood why 
his mother so often wept in secret. How could men be 
so cruel as to take his father away from her and to shut 
him up in prison for a crime he had not committed ? 

“ Why didn’t they put him under the guillotine ? ” he 
asked, when his fit of crying was over. 

A natural question, but one that caused his mother to 
shiver. 

“ Do not use that awful word,” she said. “ He was 
condemned to death, but the sentence was afterwards 
changed.” 


28 


Tragedy! 

Certain past events were now seen by Idris in a new 
light. 

Mother, I know in what prison father is. It is the 
one on the moorland over there,” he exclaimed, indicat- 
ing the direction with his hand. 

“ You are right, Idie: and now you know why I live 
at Quilaix. It is that I may be near your father. I am 
happier here — if indeed I may use the word happy in 
speaking of myself — than in any other place. I have a 
beautiful house at Nantes, but I cannot live there in ease 
and luxury while your father is deprived of everything 
that makes life bright. Now listen, Idie, for I am going 
to require of you a solemn promise. Since your father 
did not commit the murder it is certain that some one 
else did. I want you to find that man.” 

« I, mother?” 

** Of course I do not mean now. In after years. When 
you are a man.” 

** But supposing the murderer should be dead ? ” 

“You must find him, living or dead: if living, you 
must bring him to justice ; if dead, you must show to the 
world that your father was guiltless of the deed. He 
himself, confined as he is within prison walls, can do noth- 
ing to establish his innocence : and as for me, I have the 
feeling that I shall not live long. Grief is shortening my 
days. To you, then, I leave this task : to it you must 
devote your whole life. You will be spared the necessity 
of having to earn your living, since you are well pro- 
vided for. But though health, strength, and fortune be 
yours, you will find these advantages embittered by the 
constant thought, * Men think me the son of a mur- 
derer ! * Will you let the world do you this injustice ? 
Will you not try to clear your father's memory ? Will 
you not ever bear in mind your mother’s dearest wish ? ” 

Moved by her earnestness Idris gave the required 
29 


The Viking’s Skull 

promise, consoling himself over the present difficulty of 
the problem by the thought that it would perhaps seem 
easier in the days to come. 

» You have not forgotten the story we read the other 
day," continued his mother, “ of the great Hannibal ; 
how, when he was a boy his father, leading him to the 
altar, made him swear to be the lifelong enemy of 
Rome? You, too, must make a similar oath. Bring me 
the Bible." 

Idris brought it, and at his mother’s command laid his 
hand upon a page of the open Book, and repeated after 
her the following words : — * 

“ I swear on reaching manhood to do my best to es- 
tablish my father’s innocence. May God help me to 
keep this oath ! " 

“ Say it again, Idie." 

Idris accordingly repeated the vow, feeling somewhat 
proud in thus imitating the Carthaginian hero. 

His mother brushed back the curls from his forehead 
and looked earnestly into his eyes. 

“ Little Idris ! little Idris ! " she murmured. ** Am I 
acting foolishly? I am forgetting that you are only 
seven years of age — scarcely old enough to understand 
the meaning of what you have just uttered. No matter : 
when you are older, if you are a true son, as I feel sure 
you will be, you will not require the memory of this 
oath to teach you your duty. ^And now I will tell you 
the story of the murder, and why your father came to be 

suspected of Hal what is that?" she gasped, 

breaking off abruptly. “ Listen ! O, Idie, who is it?” 

They had believed themselves to be alone in the house. 
Mrs. Breakspear, before retiring to this sitting-room, had 
made fast the outer doors as well as the lower windows. 
In such circumstances, therefore, it was alarming to hear 
footsteps ascending the staircase — footsteps which Mrs. 

30 


Tragedy ! 

Breakspear instinctively felt to be those of a man, and 
not of a woman; footsteps, not of Old Pol, but of a 
stranger ! How had he gained access to the house, and 
what was his object ? 

The unknown visitor had mounted to the head of the 
staircase and was now advancing along the passage lead- 
ing to the room in which Mrs. Breakspear sat. Unable 
to speak from surprise and fear mother and son gazed at 
the door with dilated eyes as if expecting to see some 
awful vision. 

The door was pushed open, and Mrs. Breakspear 
could scarcely suppress a scream at sight of the man 
who entered, for his face was hidden behind a black silk 
vizard, such as might be worn at a bal masque^ and 
through the holes of the vizard two eyes could be seen 
sparkling, so it seemed to Mrs. Breakspear, with a sinister 
expression. A low-crowned soft hat covered his head ; 
and a cloak, reaching to his heels, completely concealed 
his person. 

He came forward a few paces, glancing round the 
room as he did so, and seeming to derive satisfaction 
from the fact that it contained no persons more formida- 
ble than a woman and a child. 

“ You are alarmed, madame, but without reason,” he 
began. “ It is not my purpose to do you hurt — ” he 
paused for a moment, and then added, “ unless your 
obstinacy should call for it.” 

The man's voice was altogether strange to Mrs. Break- 
spear. He spoke in French, but with an accent that 
somehow impressed her with the belief that he was an 
Englishman : one, too, accustomed to move in good 
society. * 

** The first fact I would impress upon your mind is 
this,” continued the stranger, that you are alone, un- 
protected, in my power absolutely. If you raise your 

31 


The Viking’s Skull 

voice there is no one either in the house or in the street 
to hear you. The town is practically deserted. All are 
gone to the Pardon, a fact I have taken into my calcula- 
tions. If you will reflect upon this, it may facilitate my 
errand.” 

These words, and the tone in which they were spoken, 
did not tend to allay Mrs. Breakspear’s fears. With 
difficulty she gathered voice to speak. 

“ Who are you ? ” 

A smile appeared beneath the fringe of the silken 
vizard. 

“ This mask is sufficient proof that I wish to conceal 
my identity.” 

“ What do you want ? ” 

“ A more sensible question than your first, since it 
brings us to the point at once. I require, nay, I demand 
of you, the Norse altar-ring now in your keeping.” 

“ What reason have you for supposing that it is here ? ” 
said Mrs. Breakspear, growing bolder. 

“ Do not equivocate.” The eyes in the mask flashed 
like polished steel. “ I know it to be in your possession. 
Do you deny it?” Mrs. Breakspear was silent. “You 
do not deny it ? Good ! The ring being here, I de- 
mand it.” 

“ Why do you want it? ” 

“ I decline to be catechised. Give me the ring.” 

“ You are evidently a gentleman by education, if not 
by birth.” The stranger gave a start at this. “ And yet 
you seek to act the part of a common thief, a part you 
would not dare act,” she cried with spirit, “ were I a man, 
and not a defenceless woman.” 

The man shrugged his shoulders impatiently. 

“ I did not come to listen to moral vapourings, but to 
receive the ring.” 

“ And what if I refuse to comply with your demand ? ” 

32 


Tragedy ! 

“You are alone, let me repeat, and absolutely at my 
mercy.” 

A dagger flashed from beneath his cloak. With a cry 
Mrs. Breakspear clasped Idris in her arms to shield him 
from a possible attack. Yet even amid her fear it did 
not escape her notice that the hand which held the weapon 
was small, white, and decorated with a diamond ring. 

“ Listen to the voice of prudence,” continued the 
stranger. “ It is within my power to despatch you both, 
and to search these apartments for the ring which you 
admit is somewhere here. I am quite prepared to go to 
that extreme rather than return without it. You will, 
therefore, see the wisdom of surrendering the ring : you 
thus save your life and that of your child : I save time 
and trouble — an arrangement mutually advantageous.” 

Something in his tone convinced Mrs. Breakspear that 
he was quite capable of carrying out his threat. 

“ You will find the ring in an ebony case in the top 
drawer of that cabinet. Take it : and if it should bring 
upon you the curse which it has brought upon me and 
mine, you will live to rue this day.” 

The man smiled, put up his weapon, walked towards 
the oak press, and in a moment more the casket was in 
his hands. 

“ Yes, this is it,” he murmured in a tone of satisfaction, 
as he drew the ring from the case, and scrutinized the 
runic inscription. 

“ May one ask,” he continued, concealing the relic 
upon his person, “ how you came to deny all knowledge 
of it at the trial of your husband ? ” 

“ I spoke truly,” she answered, “ being unaware at the 
time that my husband had secretly entrusted it to the 
care of his friend. Captain Rochefort.” 

“ After stealing it from the body of his victim,” added 
the stranger. 

3 


33 


The Viking’s Skull 

** His victim ? There you err/’ cried Mrs. Breakspear 
with flashing eyes, loathing to answer the stranger, yet 
eager to vindicate her husband. “ When my husband 
left the Armorique Club on that fatal evening he overtook 
M. Duchesne on his way home, and upon the latter’s ex- 
pressing regret for his violence of the preceding night a 
reconciliation took place. As a pledge of amity M. 
Duchesne, remembering the interest my husband had 
shown in the ring, made him a present of it : in return my 
husband insisted that Duchesne should accept the antique 
poniard purchased by him that morning. Thus they 
parted : the one with the ring, the other with the dagger. 
The assassin, whoever he was, that attacked Duchesne, 
must, during the struggle, have become possessed of the 
dagger, and with it he inflicted the fatal wound. Next 
morning, my husband, foreseeing that he might be ac- 
cused of the murder, and aware that his possession of the 
ring would seem a suspicious circumstance, handed it to 
Captain Rochefort, enjoining him, very unwisely as I now 
perceive, to keep silent on the matter.” 

“ And so,” commented the stranger, “ Captain Roche- 
fort conspired to defeat the ends of justice.” 

“ The word justice comes with an ill grace from the lips 
of a coward and a thief,” retorted Mrs. Breakspear, her 
spirit rising, as it always rose, whenever, her husband’s 
innocence was put to the doubt. “ Say, rather, that in 
concealing the ring Captain Rochefort was seeking to 
prevent the Law from drawing an erroneous conclusion.” 

“ He failed, however,” sneered the stranger, “ for the 
Law pronounced your husband guilty — greatly to my 
interests. A pity they didn’t guillotine him ! Still, he 

is in prison : there let him rot ! and Ah ! ” he 

muttered in a hoarse voice, breaking off abruptly. ** In 
the name of hell, what’s that ? ” 

He could not have been a very brave man, Idris 

34 * 


Tragedy ! 

thought, for he seemed unable to keep his hand which 
rested on the table from shaking. 

All three were silent, listening for a renewal of the 
sound. It soon came — a dull boom slowly rolling 
through the air like distant thunder. 

With the air of one mad the stranger dashed to the 
window, and flinging wide the casement looked out into 
the night, a night of glory and beauty, such as is seldom 
seen in misty Brittany. The air from horizon to zenith 
was alive with countless stars that seemed to float like 
silver dust in the blue depth. Their faint light falling 
over a wide expanse of rippling sea, and on a long arc of 
yellow sand terminated at each end by dark cliffs, formed 
a picture that would have charmed the eye of an artist. 

Idris, his curiosity getting the better of his fear, slipped 
from his mother’s embrace, and, stealing to a second case- 
ment, looked through its latticed panes. 

On the water was the boat he had noticed earlier in the 
evening, the boat that had been put out from the yacht. 
If its occupants had gone ashore for the purpose of 
taking some one aboard they had failed in their object, 
since the boat contained the same seven sailors. They 
were evidently in a state of perplexity : for, without any 
apparent motive, they were rowing backwards and for- 
wards in a line parallel with the shore, the steersman now 
and then standing up and sweeping the coast with a night- 
glass. 

Turning his eyes upon the yacht Idris saw jets of black 
smoke issuing from the funnel. The engineer was evi- 
dently getting up steam. 

Here, thought Idris, was the explanation of the boom- 
ing sound. The yacht was about to weigh anchor, and 
had fired a gun as a signal of departure. 

The masked man, however, did not seem to think that 
the sound came from the yacht. With his body half out 

35 


The Viking’s Skull 

of the window he was staring at the plateau of brown 
moorland with its faint silvery crown — staring as if be- 
hind that white mist some exciting event were happening 
that he would fain witness. 

Once more came the dull, rolling reverberation, and at 
that sound the man reeled from the window as if buffeted 
by a giant hand. 

“ Damnation ! he has escaped,” he hissed between his 
set teeth. “ Is this their vigilance, after being warned of 
the plot ? But my enemy shall not escape. I’ll join in 
the chase myself. That gun invites pursuit. It is law- 
ful,” and here a sinister smile appeared beneath the fringe 
of his mask, “ it is lawful to shoot a fugitive convict.” 

With that he darted from the room and dashed down 
the staircase : the slamming of a door followed, and the 
next moment his tread could be heard going up the street 
in the direction of the moorland prison. 

The indignation felt by Mrs. Breakspear at the theft 
of the ring became lost in a new emotion. A convict 
had escaped, and the stranger’s words seemed almost to 
imply that the fugitive was — her husband ! She strove 
to banish this idea as a wild fancy, as a too daring hope 
on her part, but it would persist in forcing itself upon her. 
With her hand pressed to her side she sat, powerless to 
speak, trembling at the thought that at that very moment 
Eric Marville might be fleeing over the misty moorland 
with armed warders in close pursuit eager to bring him 
down with a carbine shot. 

Hark ! there goes another gun,” cried Idris. Who 
is it that is firing, and why are they doing it ? ” 

Something else besides the gun was now heard. Along 
the lonely and usually silent road that led down from the 
moorland to Quilaix came a sound, which, at first faint 
and undistinguishable in character, became gradually 
more distinct, and finally developed into the thud-thud 

36 


Tragedy ! 

of horse-hoofs, accompanied by the noise of wheels rat- 
tling madly forward as if speed were a matter of life and 
death to the driver of the vehicle. 

Louder and ever louder grew the sound of the gallop- 
ing horse-hoofs ; they descended the moorland : they 
reached the outskirts of the town : they came plunging 
up the Rue Grande, and at last the wild race was brought 
to a sudden standstill in front of the harbour-master’s 
door. 

Idris, looking from the window, saw in the street be- 
low a light gig, and in it a man of soldierly aspect, who 
was holding the reins with a tight hand and using his best 
endeavours to keep the panting and steaming mare steady 
in order to facilitate the descent of a second man. 

“ For God’s sake, Eric, make haste,” cried the one in 
the gig, with a backward glance. “ They can’t be far be- 
hind us.” 

The man to whom these words were spoken delivered 
a succession of knocks at the street-door, the loud, im- 
perative knocks of one whose errand will brook no delay. 

Without waiting for his mother’s bidding Idris flew 
down the' stairs eager to learn the meaning of this strange 
summons. 

On opening the door he found on the threshold a man 
draped from neck to ankles in a grey ulster, a man who 
acted in a very strange way, for he lifted Idris completely 
off his feet and kissed him several times. 

Now Idris, though not at all averse to the kisses of his 
mother or of the fishermen’s daughters, had an objection 
to the kisses of a man, and especially of a strange man, 
and he struggled to be free. 

Where’s your mother ? ” cried the stranger, setting 
Idris down. 

“ She’s up there,” answered Idris, indicating the stair- 
case. “ But you’d better not kiss her. She won’t like it.” 

37 


The Viking’s Skull 

The man gave a joyous laugh. 

“ Won't she ? Well, let us see," was his answer, and 
he darted swiftly up the staircase, first calling out to the 
man in the gig : — 

“ See to the boy, Noel.” 

Now, my little man,” said the military gentleman, 
“jump up here. You are going for a sail in that pretty 
ship yonder in the bay.” 

Idris’ eyes sparkled at this enchanting prospect. 

“ But I can’t go without my mother." 

“ Oh, she’s coming too ; your father as well.” 

“ My father ? ” laughed Idris. “ Why, my father is 
in ” 

He checked the word “ prison ” upon his lips, and 
substituted for it the euphemism, “ Over there.” 

“ By God ! that’s where he’ll be again, unless he 
hurries,” cried the military gentleman. “ That’s your 
father who has just run up-stairs.” 

His father up-stairs ! The day had been a succession of 
surprises to Idris, and this was the climax of them all. 
He had never known such an exciting time. Deaf to the 
gentleman’s command to ascend the vehicle he turned 
and scampered hastily up to his mother’s sitting-room, 
where he beheld a sight that struck him dumb. 

The stranger was standing in the middle of the room 
with Mrs. Breakspear in his arms, her cheek pillowed on 
his breast. 

“ Eric, O, Eric ! ” she murmured : and the pure joy of 
that moment transfigured her face with the light and 
beauty of an angel’s. 

“ Edith, my sweet wife I ” cried the man pressing her 
lips to his. “ This kiss is a compensation for all I have 
suffered. There ! you mustn’t faint. Why, here’s our 
boy. What a fine fellow he is becoming! Well, Idris, 
what do you think of your father and his court dress ? ” 

38 


Tragedy ! 

Idris' face fell as he surveyed the newcomer. This 
man with his close-cropped head, grimy visage, stubbly 
beard, and half-savage air, his father ! Beneath the grey 
ulster there peeped out the prison livery, clad in which 
garb divine Apollo himself would lose all grace and 
majesty. 

Eric Marville was not slow to read the thoughts of his 
little son, and he smiled grimly. 

Upon my word, he stares as if I were some wild ani- 
mal. I verily believe I am : prison life grinds every trace 
of the godlike out of a man. — But come, Edith, we 
haven’t a moment to lose. You can hear that they have 
discovered my escape,” he continued, as another boom 
rolled over the moorland. “ Rochefort was for hurrying 
me on board his yacht at once, but it wasn’t likely that I 
would leave you and the boy behind, when you were so 
close at hand. Come, Edith and Idris, wife and son, 
come ! Away to a new life in a new land ! ” 

At that moment there came from without the warning 
voice of Captain Rochefort. 

Marville ! Marville,” he roared. ** Look to yourself. 
They’re here.” 

As he spoke quick footsteps came clattering over the 
pavement of the Rue Grande, and the ping-ping of car- 
bine shots rang out on the night-air. The bullets were 
intended for the Captain, but missed their mark ; and the 
mare taking fright at the report set off at a gallop, fol- 
lowed by the pursuers, who were on foot. 

“ Halt ! ” shouted an authoritative voice. “ Let the car 
go ; that’s not the quarry. Our man’s in here ; this is his 
wife’s abode. Through the house, two of you, and guard 
the rear. Two of you watch the front. Leave the rest 
to me. I’ll unearth him.” 

The man who gave these commands rushed through 
the doorway of the harbour-master’s dwelling, and, as if 

39 


The Viking’s Skull 

guided by instinct, neglected the lower storey and made 
his way up the staircase. 

All this took place so quickly that Marville was for the 
moment paralyzed with surprise, and stood motionless 
and silent, with his scared wife clinging to him. 

“ Don’t make any resistance, Eric, dearest,” she pleaded. 
“ It will be better not.” 

Springing from his lethargy Marville put aside the arms 
of his wife and made for the open window, only to per- 
ceive two watchful gendarmes in the street below, who 
instantly levelled their carbines at sight of the convict’s 
face. 

The only other outlet from the room was through the 
doorway : but there, framed within the entrance and 
pistol in hand, stood a grey-haired, fine looking veteran, 
clad in military uniform, Duclair, governor of the prison, 
who, alive to his responsibility, had himself joined in the 
chase. 

“ Run to earth,” he said, with a grim smile. ** You’re 
fairly cornered. It’s no use resisting.” 

“ We’ll see about that,” muttered Marville, pulling forth 
a revolver — a recent gift of Rochefort’s — with the in- 
tention of forcing his way over the disabled or dead body 
of the governor. 

“ Drop that, or by ” and Duclair punctuated the 

sentence with the significant raising of his own weapon. 

Seeing the pistol levelled Mrs* Breakspear, with up- 
lifted arms, flung herself forward to shield her husband. 

Simultaneously with her movement came a deadly 
click from Marville’s weapon, followed instantly by a 
loud bang. The report was accompanied by a cry of 
“Ah! Eric!” and by the fall of a body — sounds that 
sent a cold thrill to the hearts of those who heard them. 

There, amid faint wreaths of bluish smoke, lay Mrs. 
Breakspear, prostrate on the carpet, her forehead dis- 
40 


Tragedy ! 

figured by a spot from which came the slow ooze of 
blood. 

‘‘ O, you have shot my mother ! ” wailed Idris, casting 
a look of anguish at his father. 

The little fellow dropped on his knees beside her, but 
it was only a piece of clay upon which he now gazed : 
his mother was gone forever : was as much a part of the 
past as the dead Caesars of history. Dread change, and 
all the work of a moment ! 

“ Edith ! my wife ! O God, I have killed her ! ” 

Dropping the weapon Eric Marville staggered forward 
to lift up the dead form and implore forgiveness from her 
who was beyond power to grant it, but ere he could reach 
the fallen figure, strong hands were laid upon him, and a 
pair of steel manacles was clasped upon his wrists. 

Mon Dieu ! who has done this ? ” cried one of the 
gendarmes, appalled at the sight. 

“ The prisoner,” responded the governor. “ Take no- 
tice, all of you, that my weapon is undischarged.” 

The gendarmes lifted the silent form and laid it upon a 
couch, and there Idris knelt, sobbing bitterly and calling 
upon his mother to speak. 

My poor boy,” said the governor, after a brief inspec- 
tion of the body, “ she will never speak again. — “ We 
ought,” he added, turning to address his men, we ought 
to send for a doctor, though he can do no good, for she 
is stone dead.” 

There was but one doctor in Quilaix, and he, Idris ex- 
plained amid his tears, had gone with the procession to 
the Pardon. 

We must have some woman to attend to the body,” 
continued Duclair. “We can’t return to Valagenet leav- 
ing the boy alone with a corpse. Surely all the women 
folk haven’t gone to this cursed Pardon ? ” 

Idris, as well as his grief would let him, explained 

41 


The Viking’s Skull 

where a woman was likely to be found, and a gendarme 
was at once despatched to fetch her. 

The man who had done the deed offered now no re- 
sistance to his captors. His desire for liberty had fled. 
Overwhelmed by the awful result of his own act he had 
sunk into a stupor, staring with glassy eyes at that which 
but a few minutes before had been a living woman. 

Touched by the spectacle of his grief they allowed him 
to sit beside her ; and, as he showed a desire to clasp her 
hand, the governor made a sign to one of the party to 
remove the manacles. 

This done, he sat holding the limp fingers within his 
own, pressing them as if expecting the pressure to be 
returned. 

The gendarmes stood aloof in pitying silence. Not 
even the governor spoke, feeling the emptiness of any 
attempt at consolation. 

As for Idris, he shrank, not unnaturally, from the man 
who had killed his mother. Once he addressed to him a 
piteous reproach : — “ Oh, why did you come here ? — 
Oh, mother, mother, speak to me ! ” 

Absorbed in his own grief, however, the man did not 
hear, or, at least, did not reply to this plaint. It was a 
melancholy scene, and the men awaited with secret im- 
patience the coming of the woman to end the oppressive 
spell. 

The silence was broken by the prisoner himself. All 
bent forward to listen, but the words spoken conveyed no 
intelligible meaning to his hearers. For, in a cold, me- 
chanical voice, that sounded like the monotone of a 
mournful bell, he murmured over and over again : — 

“ The curse of the runic ring ! The curse of the runic 
ring!" 

* ♦ * * jK ♦ 

Next day the Minister of the Interior received the 

42 


Tragedy ! 

following telegram from the Governor of Valagenet 
Prison : — 

Regret to state that convict, Eric Marville, escaped 
last night, by connivance of warder, bribed by Captain 
Noel Rochefort, who, with light vehicle, waited at pre- 
arranged time near prison. Owing to mist, two men 
some time in meeting, thus enabling pursuers to overtake 
them at 6, Rue Grande, Quilaix. Here Marville, resist- 
ing capture, accidentally shot his wife dead. Prisoner 
conveyed back to Valagenet under guard of four gen- 
darmes. On lonely part of moor escort assailed by 
Rochefort and six men. Suddenness of attack and nu- 
merical superiority enabled assailants to effect rescue. 
Prisoner carried off, presumably, on board Nemesis^ as she 
steamed off immediately afterwards.” 


END OF PROLOGUE 


THE STORY 


CHAPTER I 

THE RAVENGARS OF RAVENHALL 

T he Ravengars of Ormsby-on-Sea, a town on the 
Northumbrian coast, come of an ancient stock j 
for, as students of the Gospel according to St. 
Burke are aware, the original Ravengar antedates by two 
centuries that Ultima Thule of heraldry, the Norman Con- 
quest. 

Yet, though so ancient a race, one, moreover, that has 
taken part in all the great events of English History, it 
was not until the days of the Merry Monarch that the 
Ravengars entered the charmed and charming circle of 
the peerage. 

At the battle of Naseby that gallant and loyal cavalier, 
Lancelot Ravengar, contrived to disfigure the face of the 
great Protector by a sword-cut that left behind it a scar 
for life. So valuable a service to the State merited right 
royal recognition. “ Something must be done for Rav- 
engar,” said the courtiers of the Restoration. That some- 
thing took the shape of a patent of nobility, a favour the 
more readily granted by the Monarch, inasmuch as it 
cost him nothing. So the heretofore plain Lancelot Rav- 
engar became the noble Viscount Walden, and at a later 
date was advanced to the Earldom of Ormsby, a title de- 
rived from the Northumbrian sea-town, whose rents and 
leases supplied him with the wealth requisite to maintain 
his dignity. 


44 


The Ravengars of Ravenhall 

This Lancelot Ravengar deserves mention, as being 
not only the first peer of the family, but likewise the 
originator of a very curious funeral rite instituted by his 
testamentary authority. 

When the Civil War broke out in Charles’s days, Rav- 
enhall, the seat of the Ravengars, shared the fate of many 
other historic mansions : it was besieged by the Puritan 
soldiery, and notwithstanding a gallant defence, was forced 
to yield to the foe. Its owner, Lancelot, however, was 
fortunate enough to escape to a secret subterranean 
chamber, specially made for such emergencies, where, in 
addition to the family heirlooms, provisions for many 
weeks had been stored. The Roundheads, not finding 
the Cavalier after a long and careful search, concluded 
that he had fled. 

For several days the victors remained at Ravenhall 
feasting and drinking ; and then, larder and wine cellar 
failing them, they proceeded to plunder and dismantle 
the place “ for the glory of the Lord,” and so took their 
departure. 

Now, during this period of hiding, Lancelot, with no 
companion but a Bible, had ample leisure for meditation. 
The seclusion became the turning-point in his spiritual 
life : from that time the hitherto careless Cavalier devel- 
oped religious tendencies which were not to be shaken 
by all the gibes of the Merry Monarch. 

The place of his conversion naturally became invested 
with more than ordinary interest in the eyes of Lancelot 
Ravengar : he spent much of his time there in contem- 
plation and prayer, becoming at last so attached to the 
spot as to desire it for his place of sepulture. 

Accordingly, his last will and testament enjoined that 
not only his own body, but the bodies likewise of his 
successors in the earldom should be buried in the secret 
vault. This rite constituted the condition of an entail, 
45 


The Viking’s Skull 

inasmuch as neglect on the part of the next of kin to in- 
ter his predecessor in this chamber necessitated the for- 
feiture of the inheritance. The will furthermore directed 
that the secret ingress to this crypt should not be made 
known to more than four persons at a time, viz : the then 
earl, his heir-apparent, the family lawyer, and any fourth 
person whom these three should choose to take into their 
confidence. 

When an Earl of Ormsby died his body was carried to 
the mortuary chapel on the estate, where the burial 
service of the Anglican Church was read. The coffin 
was then carried back to Ravenhall: all the servants, 
without exception, were dismissed for the day, and the 
four executors proceeded to remove the body to the secret 
crypt. 

Such was the singular testament of Lancelot Ravengar, 
first Earl of Ormsby, and its injunctions were faithfully 
observed by all his successors in the title. 

Some years prior to the events related in the prologue 
of this story, the dignity of the family was represented 
by Urien Ravengar, the tenth peer. He was the father 
of Olave, Viscount Walden, who, as being the only son, 
and heir to the title and estates, was naturally the object 
of his father’s affection. The old earl did not keep a 
steward, being content to leave his affairs in the hands 
of the young viscount, who consequently managed his 
father’s correspondence, all letters addressed to the earl 
being freely opened by the son. 

Then came a memorable day in the annals of the House 
of Ravengar. 

A letter arrived for the Earl bearing the postmark of a 
town in Kent. Olave, who was passing through the en- 
trance-hall at the time of its delivery, took it from the 
servant, and, following his usual practice in regard to his 
father’s letters, opened it. 


46 


The Ravengars of Ravenhall 

As he read he was observed to change colour, and to 
become strangely agitated. 

Taking the letter with him he went at once to his 
father's study. 

What passed there no one ever learned, save that there 
were high words between the two. That in itself was 
nothing new, the Ravengars being noted for their proud 
spirit. In the end the study-door was flung open by the 
earl who, with a face flaming with anger, cried : — 

Leave the house.” 

Olave, with a scornful glance at his father, obeyed. 

He went forth, saying nothing to any one as to the 
cause of the rupture, making no mention of his destina- 
tion or plans. Without a word of farewell he disappeared 
from Ormsby. To all who had known him he became 
as one dead. 

Every Sunday the earl, while at Ormsby, attended the 
parish church with commendable regularity, but vainly 
did he try to assume a brave air : it was clear to all that 
he felt the loss of his son, and that he was aging in con- 
sequence. 

Five — seven — ten years rolled away, and now the 
old earl lay dying in his grand bedchamber at Ravenhall. 
A wild evening had set in, and the herring-fishers, on the 
point of sailing for the Dogger Bank, put off their expe- 
dition for more propitious weather. 

The dying man moaned uneasily. His mind was 
wandering, and he frequently murmured the name of the 
absent Olave. 

Louder and ever louder grew the wind, till at length it 
arose to a gale. The gloom of night was illumined by 
vivid lightning-flashes accompanied by peals of thunder. 
The distant roar of the sea could be plainly heard at 
Ravenhall. News came that a yacht, supposed to be 
French, was foundering upon the rocks of Ormsby Race 
47 


The Viking’s Skull 

in full sight of hundreds of spectators on the beach, who 
were powerless to give help. None of the servants at 
Ravenhall, however, felt disposed to go and view the 
wreck : their master’s death, which was hourly expected, 
affected them far more than the drowning of a hundred 
strangers. They clustered in the entrance-hall, waiting 
for the fatal news, and conversing in hushed tones. 

Suddenly, out of the darkness, there stalked into the 
entrance-hall a lofty figure, drenched to the skin, without 
hat or cloak, his long hair lying wet and lank on his pale 
cheek. 

He looked neither to right nor left, asked no question 
of the startled servants, but passed quickly up the grand 
staircase with the air of one to whom the way was famil- 
iar, with the air of one, too, who had the right to do as 
he did. Like the electric flash, he had come and gone in 
a moment. 

“ Lord save us ! ” gasped the butler, a lifelong servitor 
of the family. “ Here’s Master Olave come back after all 
these years ! ” 

Olave it was. He had evidently received some intima- 
tion of his father’s condition, for he walked to the bed- 
room where the earl lay dying. To the three persons at 
the bedside, physician, nurse, and rector, he was a 
stranger, but his likeness to the patient was sufficiently 
striking to apprise them at once of the relationship. 

The viscount, keeping in the background, addressed 
himself to the physician. 

How is he ? ” 

“ Sinking fast.” 

“ Is his mind clear ? ” 

“ Now it is. He wandered earlier in the evening.’* 

“ Then leave us, please.” 

There was something so authoritative in the viscount’s 
manner that the three watchers were constrained to obey. 
48 


The Ravengars of Ravenhall 

What took place in their absence was never known. 
The interview was of short duration, and ended in a cry 
from the earl, which brought physician and nurse hurry- 
ing into the apartment. 

“ He is dead,” said Olave. 

There was no trace of sorrow in his voice, nor, in jus- 
tice be it added, of satisfaction : a quiet, impassive utter- 
ance. 

He stood with folded arms till his words had been en- 
dorsed by the physician, and then, without so little as a 
glance at the dead earl, the living earl strode from the 
apartment. 

The nurse closed the eyes of her charge, shuddering as 
she did so, for the countenance of the dead man was 
marked by a ferocity of expression which showed that his 
last feelings were those of hatred. 

A rumour soon arose that the old earl had died in the 
very act of cursing his son. The rumour may have been 
false, but certain it is that the new earl took no pains to 
contradict it. 

Urien, tenth Earl of Ormsby, was interred according to 
the rite instituted by the first peer: and the returned 
Olave, after giving the family solicitor sufficient proof of 
his identity, assumed his station as master of Ravenhall. 

Where he had spent the previous ten years was a mys- 
tery to everybody except, perhaps, his lawyer. The earl 
maintained absolute reticence as to this part of his career, 
and the sternness of his manner when the question was 
once put to him by an indiscreet lady, checked all further 
attempts on the part of the inquisitive. 

He somewhat scandalized the good folk of Ormsby by 
marrying within two months of his father’s death the 
daughter of a neighbouring baronet. His wedded life did 
not last long. Within a year his wife died, leaving an in- 
fant son named Ivar. 

4 


49 


The Viking’s Skull 

Henceforth the earl remained single. 

He had sadly changed from the lively youth whose 
pranks had been a constant source of merriment to the 
people of Ormsby. 

His long absence had developed a cold and unsympa- 
thetic temperament which led him to avoid society ; and 
though he did not refrain from giving an occasional din- 
ner or ball, he was evidently bored by these social offices. 
He found his greatest pleasure in the seclusion of the 
magnificent library at Ravenhall. He withdrew himself 
more and more from the world of men to the world of 
books. 

More than two decades went by, and the mystery 
which overhung the earl became a thing of the past, was 
forgotten by the people of Ormsby, or at least was rarely 
recalled. Gossip occupied itself chiefly with the doings 
of the earl’s only son, Ivar, or to give him his courtesy 
title. Viscount Walden, who was now in his twentieth 
year. 

To this son the earl appeared much attached : he de- 
signed him, so it was rumoured, for the diplomatic ser- 
vice : and to this end Ivar, accompanied by a tutor, was 
supposed to be travelling on the continent, perfecting 
himself in foreign languages, and studying on the 
spot the workings of the various European constitu- 
tions. 

All the collateral branches of the Ravengars had died 
out with the exception of one family, and even this was 
limited to a single person — Beatrice, daughter of Victor 
Ravengar. This Victor, the earl’s cousin in the sixth 
degree, had taken as his wife a widow with one son, 
Godfrey by name. Beatrice was the sole issue of this 
marriage. 

The earl was naturally much interested in this little 
maiden as being next in succession after his son : and 

50 


The Ravengars of Ravenhall 

accordingly when Beatrice became an orphan at the age 
of sixteen (her parents having died within a month of 
each other), the earl invited her and her half-brother, 
Godfrey Roth well — her senior by seven years — to take 
up their residence at Ravenhall, offering to settle a hand- 
some annuity upon each. 

But to the earl’s surprise the favour was declined both 
by brother and sister. It had happened that Mrs. Victor 
Ravengar had never been a very welcome visitor at 
Ravenhall, the marriage having been regarded by the 
earl as a mesalliance : and though Beatrice was of a for- 
giving nature, she could not entirely forget sundry slights 
put upon her mother. 

Godfrey was determined not to eat the bread of de- 
pendency, and Beatrice, who was devoted to her half- 
brother, sympathized with him in this feeling, and 
refused to live apart from him. He had applied himself 
to the study of medicine, and had lately set up in 
practice at Ormsby. In Beatrice, Godfrey found a ready 
assistant. She helped him in his surgery, often accom- 
panied him when visiting his patients, and never hesitated 
to take upon herself the duty of nurse if occasion re- 
quired. Hence she was all but worshipped by the people 
of Ormsby ; the earl might take their rents, but Beatrice 
possessed their hearts, and often was regret expressed 
that it should be Viscount Walden, and not Beatrice 
Ravengar, who must succeed to the fair demesne of 
Ravenhall. 

** Absolutely no more patients to visit,” remarked 
Godfrey Rothwell, returning home one afternoon to his 
neat little villa, called Wave Crest. 

“ Charming ! ” said Beatrice, clapping her hands. ** It 
is so long since we had an evening together.” 

“ Humph ! ” muttered Godfrey, lugubriously. “ But 
we are doomed not to spend it together. We have re- 
51 


The Viking’s Skull 

ceived an invitation to dine this evening at Ravenhall, 
where a small and select company is assembling to wel- 
come Master Ivar home. He returns to-night from the 
continent. The earl’s carriage will call for us at six, so 
we can’t very well decline.” 

Beatrice pouted her pretty lip. Simple in her tastes, 
unconventional in her habits, she disliked the stately 
banquets, the funereal grandeur, of Ravenhall. She 
would not, however, oppose her brother, and that same 
night found them both within the drawing-room of 
Ravenhall, conversing with their distant kinsman, the 
Earl of Ormsby. 

He was a man verging upon sixty ; his hair and 
moustache were of an iron grey; his eyes somewhat 
dimmed by long study; his features fine and striking, 
but marked by an air of profound melancholy. 

He received Godfrey kindly, and made inquiries as to 
his medical practice, but it was clear to all that his 
interest centred chiefly in Beatrice, whom he kissed with 
an old-fashioned courtesy. 

Beatrice’s figure was small and graceful, and her 
features, if not precisely regular, were nevertheless very 
pretty, and rendered more attractive by the sparkling 
colour and the vivacious expression that played over 
them. She wore an evening dress of white silk with a 
cluster of violets at her breast, a diamond star gleaming 
in her bronzed hair, which was tied in a knot behind 
in antique Greek fashion. In Godfrey’s opinion his 
sister had never looked more charming than on this 
evening. 

“ You have the fairest face in all the county,” said the 
old earl, tenderly stroking her hair. ** I wish that Ivar 
would think so,” he added significantly. 

It was not the first time that he had given expression 
to this wish in the presence of Beatrice. 

52 


The Ravengars of Ravenhall 

** Did you notice what he said, Trixie,” said Godfrey, 
when he had found an opportunity of whispering to her. 
“He wants to see you married to Ivar.” 

But Beatrice Ravengar tossed her head in scorn. 

“No one who has sneered at you, as Ivar has, shall 
ever be husband of mine, though he bring with him title 
and lands. It will require some one a good deal better 
than Ivar to separate you and me, Godfrey,” she said, 
pressing his arm affectionately. 

Godfrey felt justly proud of his sister’s attachment. 
How many women, he thought, would willingly have 
thrown over a poor struggling medico of a brother, and 
have become wild with joy at the idea of obtaining a 
coronet and the stately towers of Ravenhall ? 

Godfrey wondered, and not for the first time, why the 
earl should desire this match, since Beatrice was portion- 
less, and, therefore, from a worldly point of view, no 
very desirable alliance for the heir of the Ravengars. 
Godfrey had never quite taken to the earl : in fact, he 
had a secret distrust of him, he could not tell why : and 
he refused to believe that that peer’s attitude towards Bea- 
trice was dictated by pure disinterestedness, though it 
was difficult to see how either the earl or Ivar would be 
advantaged by the match. 

While Godfrey was occupied with these thoughts, the 
butler appeared with the message that the keeper of the 
lodge had announced by telephone the arrival of the 
viscount’s carriage at the park-gates. 

“ Let us give the heir of Ravenhall a welcome at his 
own portal,” said Lord Ormsby, rising ; and without de- 
lay the company made their way to the grand entrance- 
hall, where the butler, the housekeeper, and the rest of 
the servants, were assembled to do honour to the young 
viscount’s return. 

On the panelled wall within the Gothic doorway, and 

53 


The Viking’s Skull 

suspended by a silver chain, was a bugle of ivory, wrought 
with gold, and decorated with runic letters. 

It was a relic of ancient days, credited to have be- 
longed originally to the old Norse chieftain who had 
founded the House of Ravengar. Owing to the peculiar 
construction of this bugle some practice was required by 
those desirous of blowing it. Indeed, it was a family 
tradition that in former times the only persons gifted 
with the power of sounding it were the lord of Raven- 
hall and his immediate heir, all others essaying the feat 
being foredoomed to failure. Hence, in mediaeval times, 
when the lords of Ravenhall returned from a Crusade, or 
some other equally protracted war, it was their practice 
to sound this horn as a guarantee of the legitimacy of 
their title. 

“We will greet the heir in the ancient fashion of our 
house,” cried the earh, a great upholder of the traditional 
usages of his family. “ Pass me the bugle. Jocelyn, the 
wine ! ” 

The butler, who was standing by, holding a silver tray 
with a decanter on it, poured some port into the broad 
funnel-shaped end of the horn, the tight-fitting silver cap 
over the mouthpiece preventing the emission of the 
liquid. 

“ Custom enjoins that a lady should hand the bugle to 
the returning heir, and wish him welcome,” said Lord 
Ormsby, fixing his eyes on Beatrice. 

With some reluctance she accepted the bugle from the 
hand of the earl, who briefly instructed her — Beatrice be- 
ing not very well versed in the Ravengar traditions — as 
to the form of words to be used in this ceremony. 

The rattle of wheels was now heard coming along the 
avenue of chestnuts, and amid murmurs of “ Here he 
is ! ” from those assembled at the porch, a brougham 
rolled up. When it had stopped, there alighted a figure, 

54 


The Ravengars of Ravenhall 

fair, slight, and, though youthful, of decidedly blase ap- 
pearance. He was dressed in a light travelling ulster, and 
held a cigar between his fingers, throwing it away, how- 
ever, as soon as he beheld the company. 

“ Welcome, Ivar,” said the earl, warmly returning the 
clasp of his son’s hand : and then, waving him towards 
Beatrice, he continued, “ But one moment : we must not 
neglect the ancient custom of our house. Now, Beatrice, 
you know the words.” 

And Beatrice, holding aloft the horn of wine, in an at- 
titude that displayed all the grace of her figure, ap- 
proached the young viscount. 

Is it peace, O heir of Ravenhall ? ” 

It is peace, O lady fair,” replied the viscount, using 
the words of the traditional formula. 

“ Then drink of thine own, O heir of Ravenhall,” con- 
tinued Beatrice, extending the bugle to him. 

<< To the souls of the departed warriors,” replied Ivar, 
tossing off the contents at one draught. ** Hum ! port. 
Very good liquor for boys ; but, I confess, I like my 
aliquid amari stronger.” 

This last sentence formed no part of the Ravengar 
ritual, and the earl, who liked everything en regie, frowned 
slightly. 

“ Now prove thy title, heir of Ravenhall.” 

“ Prove it ? Ay, with a blast that shall rival that of 
the immortal Roland.” 

Removing the silver cap from the narrow end of the 
bugle, and placing the mouthpiece to his lips, Ivar blew 
with all his might. But no sound issued from the horn 
other than that of a faint soughing. The viscount, sur- 
prised at this result, removed the bugle from his mouth, 
and eyed it curiously. Then, thinking he had perhaps 
employed too much force, be blew again, but this time 
more gently. 


55 


The Viking’s Skull 

The bugle continued silent. The company looked at 
each other in surprise, tinged with amusement. The 
earl, however, seemed to take it much amiss. Beatrice 
found his eyes set upon her, and upon her only, with a 
look that made her feel uncomfortable, for it somehow 
conveyed to her mind the idea that he was mentally 
blaming her for his son’s failure ! 

“ This is a very serious matter, you know,” said the 
viscount, looking round upon the company with an air 
of mock gravity. “ The ancestral bugle refuses — posi- 
tively refuses — to acknowledge me as the heir of Raven- 
hall.” 

“ Try again, Ivar,” said the earl. 

Not I. Devil take the bugle,” exclaimed Ivar laugh- 
ing. “ Let us read a parable in my failure. In days of 
old the blast of the horn was the sign of battle; its 
silence implies that we Ravengars have no longer to 
vindicate our title by arms. But it permits me to drink, 
thereby symbolizing that peace and festivity are now to 
be our lot. Have I not said ? ” he added, theatrically, 
turning to his father. ** And now, this fantasia being 
over Why? what? is this little Trixie?” 

Till that moment he had not recognized Beatrice, so 
much did she differ from her appearance when last seen 
by him; but now that recognition came, he stopped 
short in surprise at her loveliness. 

“ Trixie ! ” he repeated. 

He bent forward as if to kiss her, but, with quiet dig- 
nity, Beatrice drew back, offering her hand. 

“ What, and must we dispense with the sweet greeting 
of old days ? Nay, then.” 

And with this he seized her in his arms, and pressed 
his lips to hers in kisses of a distinctly vinous flavour. 

How dare you ? ” exclaimed Beatrice, breaking 
breathlessly and indignantly from his embrace. 

56 


CHAPTER II 


THE MYSTERY OF THE RELIQUARY 

I VAR, with a laugh at Beatrice’s indignation, turned 
his attention to the brougham, apparently with a 
view of superintending the removal of his impedi- 
menta. 

“ O, never mind your luggage,” said the earl, in some 
surprise. “ Jocelyn will see to that.” 

But Ivar, ignoring the suggestion, was concentrating 
all his care upon what seemed to be a long box wrapped 
in a covering of coarse linen. This a footman was bring- 
ing into the hall upon his shoulders, and while giving his 
burden a jerk to place it in a position more easy for 
carrying, the cloth, by some mischance, became partly 
ripped open. 

A half-smothered exclamation and an angry glance at 
the awkward footman were eloquently expressive of 
Ivar’s annoyance. 

Eh ! what have we here ? ” said the earl, motioning 
the bearer to lay down his burden. 

He removed the cloth, and all crowded round to ad- 
mire the richness and beauty of the object thus revealed 
to view. It was a chest of black wood bound at the 
corners with silver. The lid and sides were divided into 
compartments, carved with alto-relievos of a decidedly 
ecclesiastical character. 

This is a very fine work of art,” said Lord Ormsby, 
who was somewhat of an authority on antiquities. Put- 
ting on his pince-nez he stooped to examine the chest 
more closely. ** French, I should judge, of the fourteenth 
century. What wood is it ? ” 

57 


The Viking’s Skull 


Cypress.” 

Godfrey did not fail to notice Ivar’s somewhat sullen 
intonation. 

“ And the cypress, ” remarked the earl, is the em- 
blem of death. This chest is evidently one of those 
shrines in which mediaeval folk put the relics of their 
saints.” 

“Yes, it is a reliquary.” 

“ How did you become its possessor ? ” 

“ I bought it from the sacristan of an old church in 
Brittany. Whence he obtained it is perhaps easy to 
guess. Naturally I refrained from questioning him too 
closely.” 

Lord Ormsby shot a curious glance at his son. 

“ O, did you extend your tour to Brittany, then ? ” he 
observed : after which he refrained from further remarks, 
becoming silent and thoughtful, as if his mind had been 
stirred by some troubling reminiscence. 

“ Does it still contain the bones of the saint ? ” asked 
Godfrey, jocularly. 

“It contains souvenirs of my continental tour — noth- 
ing more,” replied Ivar with a dark glance, as if inviting 
the surgeon to mind his own business. 

And then, apparently impatient of further questions, 
he cut the matter short by motioning the man to take up 
the chest again, and he himself led the way up the grand 
staircase to his own bedroom, where, after seeing the 
precious reliquary locked within a wardrobe, he seemed 
to be more at ease. 

The irritation betrayed by Ivar over this incident 
puzzled Beatrice, and left a somewhat disagreeable im- 
pression upon her mind. 

“ Master Ivar,” she whispered to her brother, “ was 
trying to smuggle that chest into Ravenhall. Why 
should he desire to conceal the fact that he is bringing 
58 


The Mystery of the Reliquary 

home a reliquary ? Depend upon it, the chest contains 
something that he does not wish his father to see. What 
can it be ? ” 

During the course of the dinner that followed, Ivar 
was the principal speaker, rattling off various incidents 
of his continental tour. 

There was nothing particularly edifying or brilliant in 
these reminiscences, but Lord Ormsby evidently thought 
otherwise : for, from time to time he would turn to his 
guests with an air of pride, as if inviting them to take 
note of his son’s remarks. 

** That is one good trait in the earl’s character,” thought 
Beatrice. ‘‘ He has great affection for his son. I doubt 
very much whether the son deserves it.” 

When, at a late hour, she and her brother rose to take 
their departure, so heavy a storm was raging that the 
earl pressed them to stay for the night, and to this ar- 
rangement Godfrey and his sister assented, the former 
little foreseeing that his stay would have a remarkable 
bearing on the events of the future. 

** Well, Ivar,” said the earl, when the two found them- 
selves alone. “ What do you think of Beatrice ? ” 

“ She has grown devilishly handsome.” 

‘*She is a girl whom any man might be proud to 
marry.” 

Ivar was resting his head upon his hand, and his face 
was hidden in shadow : therefore the earl did not perceive 
the sudden change in his son’s expression. 

Marry ? ” echoed the viscount. 

“ I want to see you married, Ivar, and to no one but 
Beatrice.” 

“The devil!” muttered Ivar uneasily; and then, 
aloud, he added, “ Does Trixie know of this wish of 
yours ? ” 

“ I have occasionally hinted at it.” 

59 


The Viking’s Skull 

** Her manner towards me to-night can scarcely be 
called encouraging. She was decidedly cold and stand- 
offish.” 

“ Perseverance on your part will soon overcome her 
indifference.” 

“ If I must take a wife, why must she be cousin 
Trixie, seeing that she hasn’t a penny to bless herself 
with ? ” 

“ She is richer than you or I,” said the earl, with a dry 
laugh. “ Ivar, I am about to tell you a secret, the knowl- 
edge of which will soon cause you to waive your objec- 
tion — if you have any — to this match.” 

“ Richer than I,” thought Ivar. What does the old 
fool mean ? ” 

The earl seemed ill at ease. He remained silent for 
several minutes, evidently debating within himself as to 
the wisdom of disclosing the secret. At last, after glanc- 
ing all around the apartment, as if to make certain that 
no one was within hearing, he bent forward in his chair 
towards Ivar, and began to speak in a low tone. The 
communication took a long time in the telling, and when 
it was ended, the viscount sat in silence with a look of 
consternation on his face. 

Recovering from his amazement he muttered hoarsely, 
“ Why have you not told me of this before ? ” 

“ You were not of an age to hear it. You are old 
enough now to understand the virtues of silence and 
secrecy.” 

“ And this, this son — what did you call him, Idris ? — 
where is he now ? ” 

For reply Lord Ormsby produced from the bookcase 
a copy of the Times newspaper, dated seven years pre- 
viously. 

One of its columns was headed, “ Terrible fire at Paris. 
Burning of the Hotel de V Universe The earl’s fore- 
6o 


The Mystery of the Reliquary 

finger, moving down a list of victims, stopped at the 
name, “ Idris Marville, aged 23.” 

Ivar's features relaxed something of their dismay. 

“ Satisfactory from my point of view,” he muttered. 

** None but you and I know this secret, but it is per- 
petually open to discovery as long as that church and its 
records exist. You now see the necessity for this match 
with Beatrice. Ravenhall and the coronet are really 
hers. Marry her then, and you will thus secure your 
position as lord of Ravenhall. — What is your answer ? ” 

** Humph ! Suppose it’ll have to be.” 

The sullen look on Ivar’s face caused his father to ele- 
vate his eyebrows in surprise. It certainly cltd seem 
strange that the viscount, who had pronounced Beatrice 
to be ** devilishly handsome,” should evince dissatisfaction 
at the prospect of marrying her ! 

The sleeping apartment allotted to Godfrey Rothwell 
contained the most luxurious bed he had ever occupied, 
and he speedily fell into a sound sleep, from which he 
was abruptly roused by a noise in the corridor outside 
his bedroom door. 

He sat up and listened. Before stepping into bed he 
had switched off the electric light, but the darkness now 
became faintly illumined by a horizontal line of light ap- 
pearing at the foot of the door. Its origin was obvious : 
some one was walking in the corridor and bearing a 
lamp or candle. 

The line of light had no sooner appeared than it disap- 
peared, showing that the person had passed by. 

Moved by the thought that it might be a burglar, 
Godfrey stepped quietly from his bed, and cautiously 
opening the door to the extent of a few inches, peeped 
out. 

There, a few feet distant, with his back towards him, 
61 


The Viking’s Skull 

was Viscount Walden moving quietly along the corridor. 
Evidently he had not been to bed, for he was still wear- 
ing the dress suit he had worn at dinner : to it he had 
added a hard felt hat, into the brim of which there was 
stuck a lighted candle, after the fashion of a Cornish 
miner. 

With both hands he was half-dragging, half-carrying 
the cypress chest about which he had displayed so much 
concern. It was the accidental fall of this reliquary that 
had roused Godfrey from sleep. 

Now, when a young man is detected in the dead of 
night stealing along with a reliquary that he has tried to 
introduce surreptitiously into his father’s house, it may 
be inferred that he is actuated by a bad motive ; such, at 
least, was Godfrey’s inference. Accordingly, though 
conscious of the meanness of espionage, yet, moved by a 
feeling for which he could not account, he resolved to 
follow the viscount, and ascertain, if possible, the mean- 
ing of this strange proceeding. 

Waiting till Ivar had turned a corner of the corridor, 
Godfrey, having hurriedly slipped into his clothes, stole 
forth in his stockinged feet and followed at a distance, 
lurking within the shadows, and exercising the utmost 
vigilance to prevent himself from being seen. Fortu- 
nately, there were at intervals, various pieces of furniture, 
as well as curtains and recesses, of all which Godfrey took 
prompt advantage whenever Ivar seemed on the point 
of giving a backward glance. 

The viscount’s course, after he had left the corridor in 
which the bedrooms were situated, conducted him down 
a staircase and along a second corridor, this latter ter- 
minating at the door of the Picture Gallery. Here he 
paused, and sat down upon the box to rest himself. He 
was no atfelete, and the moving of this heavy chest was 
a tax upon his strength. 


62 


The Mystery of the Reliquary 

By the grim and dismal circle of light shed around by 
the taper in Ivar’s hat Godfrey could see that the vis- 
count’s face was pale and marked by an expression of 
fear, and that he gave a start at the sudden coughing of 
the night wind among the trees without. 

Some of the fear manifested by him seemed to pass 
over to Godfrey, who found himself becoming strangely 
suspicious as to the contents of the chest. The secrecy 
observed by the viscount was extremely suggestive of the 
theory of crime. Was the reliquary the receptacle of 
guilty evidence which Ivar, unable to dispose of else- 
where, was bringing to Ravenhall as the safest place of 
concealment ? 

The reliquary itself, apart altogether from the consid- 
eration of its contents, had something gruesome about it. 
Though the exterior carvings were mediaeval in char- 
acter, Godfrey, who was somewhat of a connoisseur on 
wood, had felt, when surveying the chest at the entrance- 
hall, that it was far more ancient than the middle ages : 
with that durability peculiar to cypress wood, the chest 
might have seen the classic days of Greece : differing lit- 
tle in shape from an Egyptian mummy-case, it might 
have held the embalmed remains of a Rameses : nay, its 
antiquity perhaps antedated the very Pyramids them- 
selves ! 

He had ample leisure for these reflections, for the vis- 
count, having once seated himself, seemed loth to move 
forward again. 

At last, pulling out a spirit flask, Ivar took a deep 
draught, and, rising to his feet, produced a key with 
which he unlocked the door of the Picture Gallery. 

Then, lifting the reliquary by means of a silver ring 
affixed to the lid, he proceeded to traverse the entire 
length of the hall, dragging his burden with him. 

Godfrey, who was no stranger to the place, surmised 

63 


The Viking's Skull 

that the viscount’s journey was almost at an end, since 
the gallery terminated in a room from which Ivar would 
have no egress, except by the same door that he was now 
approaching. 

The viscount’s first act on entering the room was to 
close the door. Upon this Godfrey glided swiftly for- 
ward, and falling upon one knee, endeavoured to obtain 
a glimpse of the interior by applying his eye to the key- 
hole. In this he was thwarted by the key in the lock, 
and though the key was on his side of the door, he hesi- 
tated to remove it, lest the sound should attract Ivar’s 
attention. 

Godfrey could detect no light within the chamber, and 
therefore he assumed that Ivar must have extinguished 
his taper. 

Why? 

Godfrey placed his ear to the door. No sound came 
from within. If the room contained an occupant, that 
occupant was motionless, or, if moving, was moving 
silently and in the dark. 

Then suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps Ivar 
had quitted the chamber by a secret exit known only to 
himself. 

Godfrey grew perplexed, impatient. In standing thus 
inactive he was losing the chance of discovering the 
viscount’s secret. Still, Ivar might be within, and the 
surgeon deemed it imprudent to push open the door. 

A way of solving the difficulty presented itself. He 
suddenly turned the key in the lock, clicking it loudly, 
to the end that, if Ivar were really within, he could not 
fail to learn that he was now a prisoner. 

Godfrey listened. There was no cry of surprise : no 
hasty rush of feet to the door : no movement at all. 
After waiting a few moments, he came to the conclusion 
that the room was untenanted. 

64 


The Mystery of the Reliquary 

He turned the key, and pushed open the door. 

Aided by a subdued light, tender and dreamy, that 
stole through a latticed casement, he had visible proof 
that the chamber was devoid of anything in human shape. 
The cypress chest had also vanished. 

No way of egress was visible save by the window; but 
Ivar had not made his exit by this, as the state of its 
fastenings clearly showed. His disappearance was obvi- 
ously due to the existence of some secret passage. 

Godfrey, loth to turn back now that he had come thus 
far, resolved to make an examination of the room, even 
at the risk of being discovered by the returning Ivar. 

He began his search with the fireplace. 

Surely some propitious fairy was directing his steps ! 
A long slab of stone, that formed one side of the fire- 
place, had sunk to the level of the hearth, revealing a 
passage behind. This slab was worked by a pulley, since 
he could feel at each side the ropes by which it had been 
lowered ; but without stopping to examine the mechan- 
ism, he entered the passage and moved forwards through 
the darkness, exploring the way before him both with 
hand and foot in order to guard against a possible pre- 
cipitation down a flight of stairs. The sequel justified 
this precaution, for he soon found himself at the head of 
a flight of stone steps. He counted forty of them before 
he reached the level flooring of another passage. At 
the end of this a faint light could be seen proceeding 
from behind a door that stood ajar. He concluded that 
the viscount had at last attained his destination, and was 
occupied on the task, whatever it was, that had brought 
him there. 

Godfrey, drawing near, ventured to take a peep through 
the partly-opened door, and caught a glimpse of a large 
stone chamber, octagonal in shape. From its vaulted 
roof hung a lighted sconce. No window was visible, 
5 65 


The Viking’s Skull 

and, connecting this circumstance with the number of 
stairs he had descended, Godfrey was of opinion that it 
was a subterranean chamber. Th^ floor was devoid of 
carpet, and the only pieces of furniture were a table 
of carved oak and four antique chairs of the same 
material. 

Of the eight sides of the chamber one was occupied by 
the doorway where Godfrey stood : the other seven were 
severally pierced by recesses, the depth of which he was 
unable to ascertain, since the entrance of each was hung 
with a curtain of black velvet of such length that the 
silver lace fringing its foot touched the floor. The cur- 
tains draping two of the alcoves were plain : the remain- 
ing five were adorned with lettering worked in silver 
thread. As he read the lettering by the light of the 
flame that burned in the antique sconce Godfrey, fa- 
miliar though he was with death, dissection, and all that 
the non-medical mind regards as gruesome, could not re- 
press some uneasy sensations. That silver lettering 
recorded the names and titles of the deceased Earls of 
Ormsby, from Lancelot Ravengar, the first peer, to Urien 
Ravengar, the tenth. 

Godfrey knew himself to be on forbidden ground. He 
was standing on the threshold of the secret burial vault 
of the lords of Ravenhall ! 

Ivar was in one of the alcoves, whither he had be- 
taken himself with the cypress chest, but as the curtain con- 
cealed him from view, it was impossible for Godfrey to 
see what the viscount was doing. What Godfrey heard, 
however, was sufficiently alarming. From the recess 
came a recurrence of sounds that could be attributed 
only to the use of a screw-driver. There could be no 
doubt that Ivar was engaged in the work of removing one 
of the coffin lids, and Godfrey felt, moreover, that this act 
had some connection with the contents of the reliquary. 

66 


The Mystery of the Reliquary 

Was Ivar about to transfer the evidences of his guilt — 
for of his guilt Godfrey now entertained no doubt — from 
the reliquary to one of the coffins ? There could scarcely 
be a safer place of concealment than a coffin contained 
in a secret vault, the entrance of which was known to 
four persons only. Yet this theory seem precluded by 
the fact that a coffin constructed to hold one body would 
not suffice for two. Ivar could scarcely intend to carry 
off from the crypt the relics of one of his ancestors, since 
he would have the same difficulty in disposing of a dead 
earl as of less distinguished remains. 

Suddenly there came from Ivar a cry, or rather a yell ; 
he dropped the screw-driver, or whatever tool he was 
using, and thrusting aside the black velvet curtain, stag- 
gered into the vault and tumbled into a chair, where he 
sat for some moments, his eyes fixed in terror upon the 
alcove from which he had emerged. 

** Bah ! ” he presently muttered. “ What a fool I am ! 
Yet I could swear I heard a whisper coming from the 
coffin. By God ! what creepy work this is ! ” 

A long pull at the spirit flask seemed to infuse new 
courage into him. He arose and moved again towards 
the alcove, though with somewhat slow steps. 

As Ivar lifted the curtain Godfrey tried to ascertain 
what lay behind, but succeeded only in catching a glimpse 
of the reliquary, which stood on the floor with the taper- 
lit hat resting upon it. 

The viscount picked up the fallen tool and resumed 
the task of screw-loosing. Then, after what seemed an 
age to the waiting surgeon, the screw-driver was dropped, 
and Godfrey became aware that Ivar had removed the 
coffin-lid, for he had placed it on the floor in such a man- 
ner that one end of it projected beneath the curtain and 
appeared in the vault. 

Godfrey was unable to tell what followed. Ivar’s work, 

67 


The Viking’s Skull 

whatever its character, was performed in silence, and 
lasted a considerable time. 

More than once Godfrey stole into the vault for the 
purpose of peering behind the curtain, but on each occa- 
sion he did not get beyond the table, the fear of detec- 
tion restraining him from proceeding farther. 

Then, moved by a sudden impulse, he took out his 
penknife, and turning to the alcove nearest the door, he 
quickly and silently cut off a corner from the velvet 
drapery. 

“ This may be of service,” he thought, thrusting the 
fragment inside his pocket, if at any time it should be- 
come necessary to prove that I have stood in the secret 
funeral vault of the Ravengars.” 

Ivar’s task was evidently coming to an end, for the 
coffin-lid was now drawn from beneath the curtain into 
the alcove, and the peculiar sounds caused by the appli- 
cation of the screw-driver recommenced. 

With their cessation Ivar reappeared from behind the 
curtain, wearing his taper-lit hat again, and dragging the 
chest, which, judged by the effort required for its re- 
moval, was in no way diminished from its former weight 
— a circumstance which puzzled Godfrey not a little. 

He was preparing for flight, but as Ivar had seated 
himself in the chair again, he was tempted to linger a 
moment. 

“ Thank the devil that’s over,” said the viscount in a 
tone of satisfaction, “ and I hope Lorelie will be satisfied.” 

“ Lorelie! ” murmured Godfrey with a start. “ Lorelie I 
Surely he does not mean Mademoiselle Riviere ? ” 

He had no time just then to consider this question, for 
Ivar, having drained the few drops that remained in the 
flask, was now extinguishing the flame in the sconce, 
preparatory to leaving the crypt. 

Godfrey immediately stole off, and succeeded in reach- 
68 


The Mystery of the Reliquary 

ing his room without detection. He went to bed again 
and slept soundly. 

He awoke to find the sun glinting pleasantly through 
the diamond panes. The brightness of the morning had 
so cheering an effect on his spirits that he felt disposed 
at first to regard the event of the preceding night as the 
result of a dream. 

Then, his memory quickening, he thrust his hand be- 
neath his pillow and drew forth a piece of black velvet 
edged with silver lace. 

It was no dream,” he muttered, gazing at the relic. 
** I have really stood in the secret burial vault of the 
Ravengars. What a story this will be for Beatrice ! ” 

Godfrey was accustomed to make his sister his con- 
fidante in all things ; but, somehow, upon reflection, he 
resolved, for the present at least, to maintain secrecy 
respecting Ivar’s strange doings. 


69 


CHAPTER III 


IDRIS REDIVIVUS 

“ VAR has been at home two months, yet we have 

I had no visit from him.” 

JL The speaker was Godfrey Rothwell, and the 
scene the breakfast-room of his villa, Wave Crest. 

“ Why should he visit us ? ” asked Beatrice. 

“ Ahem ! as a suitor for your hand, in compliance with 
his father’s wish.” 

Ivar had better not insult me by such an offer.” 

“An offer of marriage can scarcely be called an insult, 
Trixie.” 

“ It would be — from hintl" returned Beatrice with a 
heightened colour. “ I speak what I know,” she added 
oracularly. 

She began to pour out the coffee : while Godfrey, 
somewhat puzzled by her words, turned to the letters 
awaiting him. No sooner had he glanced at the hand- 
writing on the envelope of the first than he gave a great 
start. 

“ Heavens ! have the dead returned to life ? ” 

He hastily broke the seal and ran his eye over the let- 
ter, while the mystified Beatrice awaited the explanation 
of his words. 

“ From my old college-friend, Idris Marville.” 

“ What ? ” cried Beatrice with a little scream of sur- 
prise. “ Is he not dead, then ? Did he escape the 
fire?” 

“ That’s self-evident. There has been a dreadful mis- 
take somewhere. He will prove that he is alive by pay- 
70 


Idris Redivivus 


ing us a visit. In fact, he will be here this very morning. 
Well, this is a surprise ! ” 

“ More — a pleasure,” added his sister. 

Beatrice had never seen Idris, but she had often heard 
of him from Godfrey, and knew the painful story of his 
boyhood. She was aware, too, that on one occasion, 
Godfrey, being in pecuniary difficulties, had applied to 
Idris in preference to the Earl of Ormsby, and had re- 
ceived by return of post a handsome cheque. The mem- 
ory of this event was still fresh in her mind, and she was 
desirous of showing her gratitude to her brother’s bene- 
factor. 

He signs himself ‘ Breakspear,’ I see,” she said, glanc- 
ing at the signature of Idris. 

“ Yes : he has dropped the name of Marville, and has 
taken his mother’s maiden name. It is easy to guess his 
reason.” 

True to the promise contained in his letter Idris arrived 
that same morning, and Beatrice took a good view of him 
from behind the curtain of her bedroom window, as he 
strode up the garden path accompanied by Godfrey. 

Twenty-three years had passed since that memorable 
night at Quilaix, and Idris was now verging upon thirty 
— dark-eyed, handsome, athletic, with a face bronzed by 
southern suns. His appearance impressed Beatrice 
favourably. 

** There is nothing mean or ignoble about she 

murmured. 

The first greetings being ended, Idris sat down to a 
pleasant luncheon, presided over by Beatrice. 

** Your name has been so often on Godfrey’s lips,” she 
said, “ that you seem quite like an old friend, though I 
never thought to see you after the announcement of your 
death in the newspapers.” 

Idris smiled. 


71 


The Viking’s Skull 

“ Perhaps I have done wrong in letting people think 
that I perished in the burning of the ^ Hotel de T Univers' 
At the time of the fire I was at the opera-house. On 
leaving I found the boulevards ringing with the news. I 
bought a newspaper and discovered my own name erro- 
neously inserted among the list of victims. I resolved 
not to set the mistake right, for it suddenly occurred to 
me that here was a convenient opportunity to die — to 
the world. Wherever I went, the name Marville recalled 
my father’s crime, or rather, supposed crime. ‘ Let the 
world think that Eric Marville ’s son is dead,’ I thought, 
< and let him begin life anew, and under a different 
name.’ ” 

Was the yacht Nemesis, in which your father escaped, 
never heard of again ? ” asked Godfrey. 

“ It vanished, leaving not a trace behind.” 

“ Strange ! The news of your father’s escape, together 
with a description of the delinquent vessel, would be tele- 
graphed to all civilized countries. Every ocean-steamer, 
every seaport, would be on the watch for the yacht, and 
yet you say it was never seen again.” 

“ Its disappearance shows how well Captain Rochefort 
had devised his plans,” Idris answered. 

“ Since your father did not communicate with you, his 
only son, it follows, almost as a matter of course, that he 
did not communicate with his more distant relatives ? ” 

“ His relatives, if he had any, are unknown to me : in 
fact, I am quite in the dark as to my father’s antecedents. 
Among all his papers there was not one letter relating to 
his kinsfolk, nor any clue whatever to indicate his history 
prior to his settling at Nantes in 1866.” 

You are certain that your father was English born ? 
Because if so, his name, and date and place of birth, to- 
gether with his parents’ names, should be among the rec- 
ords of Somerset House.” 


72 


Idris Redivivus 


I have tried Somerset House, and have traced several 
Eric Marvilles, some living and some dead, but none of 
them could I identify as my father. I am sometimes dis- 
posed to believe that Marville was not his real name, but 
one assumed by him on settling at Nantes.” 

“ Cannot your mother’s relatives give you any infor- 
mation ? ” 

“ They, too, are ignorant of my father’s origin. My 
mother was an English governess at Nantes when she first 
met my father. A few months after her marriage the 
death of an aunt endowed her with an ample fortune, a 
fortune which has devolved upon me.” 

** If twenty-three years have passed since your father 
was last heard of,” said Beatrice, ‘‘ do you not think that 
the probabilities point to his death ? He must be dead,” 
she added. “ He would not be so unfatherly as not to 
communicate with you during all these years.” 

“ That is my opinion — at times : and at other times I 
think he is still living, but resolved, from some mistaken 
notion of honour, to ignore me until he can give me the 
heritage of a fair name.” 

“ If he is alive,” continued Beatrice, “ he has perhaps 
married again, and has children, and, though it sounds 
harsh to say it, other and new interests which your ap- 
pearance on the scene might embarrass.” 

This was a bitter thought, but by no means new to 
Idris. 

I trust I am not offending you by the question,” ob- 
served Godfrey, “ but do you really, in your heart of 
hearts, believe that your father was innocent ? ” 

** There, the torture. My mother was firmly convinced 
of his innocence, and only an hour or two before her 
death, as if gifted with prevision, she did her best to im- 
press me with her belief ; nay, more, she made me take 
an oath that I would, on attaining manhood, use all my 

73 


The Viking’s Skull 

endeavours to clear my father’s name. Yet the thought 
often strikes me that I am nursing an illusion in thinking 
him innocent. Who am I that I should set up my opin- 
ion against that of the judge, the jury, and the press ? ” 

“And the masked man who stole the runic ring — 
what of him ? ” Godfrey asked. 

“ He, too, is a person who has eluded all my inquiries. 
And small wonder! Had I been a man at the time 
when these events happened, instead of a boy of seven, 
my investigations, begun at once, might have met with 
success, whereas the long lapse of years has handicapped 
my efforts. And yet, fanciful as it may sound to you, 
Godfrey, I am not without hope, even at this late day, of 
finding my father, and of vindicating his innocence. At 
any rate, this is the object to which my life is devoted, 
and from which I shall never swerve." 

And Idris, having satisfied the curiosity of his friends 
on various other points, immaterial in themselves, dropped 
the subject, and the conversation flowed into other chan** 
nels. 

Presently they were interrupted by the appearance of 
the page-boy, with a note addressed to Godfrey, who, 
finding that he was wanted in a critical case, withdrew, 
leaving Beatrice to entertain the guest. 

“ I am afraid, Mr. Breakspear," she said, “ that you will 
spend a rather dull time here ; our household is a quiet 
one, and Ormsby offers little in the shape of entertain- 
ment. Our only show-places are the old Saxon church 
on the hill-top, and Ravenhall — Lord Ormsby’s seat." 

“I think I’ll take a stroll towards the old Saxon 
church," said Idris, who was simple in his tastes, and 
easily pleased. 

“ I have to pass that way," Beatrice said, “ and, if you 
care to accompany me " 

Idris, who found Beatrice’s soft grey eyes very attrac- 

74 


Idris Redivivus 


tive, readily accepted her offer ; and, after a pleasant walk 
of half an hour, the two reached the ancient church of 
the Northumbrian saint, Oswald. 

“ This,” said Beatrice, as they passed through an arched 
doorway, and stood within the subdued light cast by the 
stained glass, “ this is the Ravengar Chantry.” 

“ A sort of oratory and burial-place of the Raven- 
gars ? ” 

“ Yes. These monumental brasses are the tombs of 
my ancestors, that is, of those who antedated the Res- 
toration ; those who lived after that time are interred in 

the private crypt at Ravenhall. For you must know 

Ah, listen ! ” she said, breaking off abruptly. “ Some 
one is playing the organ.” 

And playing with a masterly touch, too,” remarked 
Idris, after a brief interval of listening. 

Who can it be ? ” murmured Beatrice. “ Our own 
organist is not capable of such music.” 

She was about to advance on tiptoe from the transept 
to the nave in order to obtain a view of the organ-loft, 
but Idris gently checked her. 

** Stay a moment. If we show ourselves we may dis- 
concert the musician and put an end to his playing.” 

He sat down on a stone seat in the transept. Beatrice 
followed his example : and for several minutes they lis- 
tened in silence, entranced by the sweet and noble strains 
flowing from the organ-loft. 

Then, gradually, a peculiar change came over the spirit 
of the music. 

** Ah ! what an eerie strain ! ” murmured Beatrice, a 
shiver passing over her. 

Idris, too, found himself curiously affected. Becoming 
oblivious of external things, yielding himself entirely to 
the influence of the music, he essayed to enter into the 
spirit and meaning of the piece. Those solemn rhythmic 

75 


The Viking’s Skull 

cadences that thrilled him with a melancholy awe could 
be interpreted only as a Funeral March. At intervals 
there pealed from the organ shivering, staccato notes, 
like the heart-sobs of those who “ keen ” for the dead, 
succeeded by a mournful, stately measure, as if the cold 
voice of Fate were declaring that death must be endured 
as the common lot of all. The very soul of grief was 
voiced in those notes, which, lofty and sad, mysterious as 
the moonlight, seemed to weep as they kissed the cold 
stones of the chantry. 

During the dream-like spell induced by the weird char- 
acter of the requiem Idris suddenly became subject to a 
very strange feeling, the like of which he had never be- 
fore known. Vivid as fire on a dark night there came 
upon him the startling conviction that this was not his 
first visit to the Church of St. Oswald. He had been in 
this chantry in time past ; he had seen these monumental 
brasses before: that Funeral March was a familiar air. 
The interior of the edifice was as the face of an old friend 
who has not been seen for years. 

He was sitting in a part of the transept from which it 
was impossible for him to view the opposite ends of the 
nave, unless he possessed the power of being able to see 
around a distant corner ; yet, directing his mental eye 
towards the interior of the church, he could see the 
chancel-window at its eastern end, and the hexagonal 
font by the western porch. 

He felt that he could find his way about the building 
without once stumbling, even though it were wrapped 
in the gloom of night. Every part of it, from the 
belfry tower above to the crypt below, was familiar 
ground. 

With a solemn and long drawn-out diminuendo the 
music ceased. 

Shivering like one roused from a sleep upon the cold 

76 


Idris Redivivus 


ground Idris started from his reverie, to find Beatrice re- 
garding him with a curious, half-frightened look. 

** A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Breakspear. I have 
spoken to you three times, and you have given me no 
answer. Have you seen a ghost? You look quite 
* fey,’ as we say in these parts.” 

I have been subjected to a very singular experience,” 
Idris answered, looking around with a perplexed air. 
“ Till to-day I have never set foot in Ormsby. Yet I 
know this church, know it as well as I know my cham- 
bers in the Albany. Now, tell me, does not the chancel- 
window contain three divisions ? ” 

Beatrice murmured an affirmative, seeing nothing 
wonderful in Idris’ remark, inasmuch as chancel-windows 
usually contain three divisions. 

“ And in the central pane is painted the Madonna, 
treading upon the Old Dragon, with the Holy Child in 
her arms ? ” 

Beatrice, beginning to be surprised, said that this was 
correct. 

“ The right-hand pane represents King Oswald setting 
up the Cross as his standard for battle, while the left 
portrays him at his palace-gate, distributing his gold and 
silver plate among the poor.” 

“ Yes. How do you know, if you have never 
been here before?” Beatrice burst forth, her amaze- 
ment increasing as Idris proceeded to enumerate other 
details. 

Mr. Breakspear, you must have been here before ! ” 

‘‘Never! I solemnly assure you ; at least, not in the 
body.” 

He walked towards the head of an oblong marble 
sepulchre, surmounted by the gilt effigy of a crusading 
Ravengar, lying in cross-legged repose. 

“ Mark me,” he said, turning to Beatrice, “ I shall find 

77 


The Viking's Skull 

on the other side of this tomb a circular hole large 
enough to admit my hand.” 

At the foot of the stone knight was sculptured the 
heraldic shield of the Ravengars, much defaced, and 
crumbling with age ; in the first quartering of which was 
a round orifice of sufficient dimensions to admit the inser- 
tion of Idris’ hand. 

“ What do you say to this ? ” he asked of Beatrice, 
who had followed him to the tomb. 

But Beatrice, full of wonderment, could say nothing. 

“ I have a distinct remembrance of placing my hand 
here in days gone by,” Idris continued. Yes : I have 
been in this church before : I am as certain of that as I 
am of my own existence. But how ? There’s the 
puzzle. Not in the body, for my life has been passed at 
a distance from Ormsby. How then ? Has the knowl- 
edge been imparted to me in a dream ? Or is it a fact 
that during sleep the spirit of man may visit distant 
places ? Or was old Pythagoras right in asserting that 
we have all had a previous existence ? Am I a reincar- 
nation of one who was familiar with this place in time 
past ? Miss Ravengar, how is one to explain this 
psychological puzzle ? ” 

Beatrice’s reply was checked by a light footfall. A 
young lady, attired in a soft clinging dress of muslin, was 
coming slowly towards the chantry. 

Idris looked up and met her eyes, eyes of a dark, 
tender violet. One glance : and then — and then 

If he had been previously required to write an essay 
on love, that essay would have run on the lines that 
love, to be sincere and lasting, must be grounded on the 
esteem that a man and a woman have for each other’s 
good qualities ; that love therefore must be the product 
of time ; and that, consequently, genuine love at first 
sight is an impossibility. 


78 


Idris Redivivus 


He thought differently now, as he gazed upon a face 
fairer than any he had ever seen : so pure the spirit 
breathing from it that, like the face of a Madonna upon 
a cathedral window, it seemed hallowed by a light com- 
ing from beyond. 

If, in the language of the mystic, all beauty be a 
manifestation of the Divinity, is it any marvel that Idris, 
as he stood mute and motionless, should have felt an 
awe, a sense of adoration, stealing over him ? 

As the young lady drew near she acknowledged 
Beatrice's presence with an inclination of her head, an 
action to which Beatrice responded with a frigid air, an 
air that seemed to trouble the other, for her eyes 
drooped, and a faint colour mantled her face. With 
quiet dignity she passed by, and the next moment had 
vanished through the porch. 

Not till then did Idris find his tongue. 

What a divine face ! ” he murmured. ** Who is 
she?” 

“Her name is Riviere — Lorelie Riviere,” answered 
Beatrice somewhat coldly. 

“ Riviere. She is French, then?” 

Though evidently disinclined to pursue the subject, 
Beatrice, seeing Idris’ interest in the stranger, proceeded 
to enlighten him so far as she was able. 

“ Mademoiselle Riviere is a lady, apparently of inde- 
pendent means. She came to Ormsby about four 
months ago, taking for her residence The Cedars, a villa 
on the North Road. She lives a quiet and secluded life. 
Her name indicates French nationality, but beyond that 
fact no one knows anything of her origin and antecedents. 
Godfrey once attended her professionally, and she im- 
pressed him as being a lady of birth and refinement : 
but,” added Beatrice, compressing her lips, “ / do not 
like her.” 


79 


The Viking’s Skull 

The tone in which she delivered herself of this last 
sentiment somewhat vexed Idris : but whatever might 
be the cause of her dislike, he felt that it did not 
originate from jealousy of the stranger’s beauty. Bea- 
trice was too high-minded to be actuated by so paltry 
a motive. For his own part he could not associate any- 
thing bad with the sad grave eyes of Lorelie Riviere. 
Beatrice, in her judgment of the other’s character, must 
surely be the victim of some misapprehension. 

But — but — was she the musician ? ” he asked. 

“ It seems so,” replied Beatrice, moving into the nave. 
“ There is no one in the organ-loft now. But here comes 
the boy who blows. He will tell us. Roger, was it 
Mademoiselle Riviere who was playing just now?” 

The lad gave an affirmative nod, and exhibited with 
pleasure the coin he had received as a fee. 

“ Comes here often,” he said. “ Calls at our cottage 
when she wants me to blow.” 

Idris was silent, marvelling that one so young should 
play with a touch so masterly : marvelling still more that 
her music should have wrought upon him an impression 
so weird. 

He moved around the church with Beatrice, and then 
mounted the stairs leading to the gallery, feigning to be 
interested in what he saw, in reality seeing nothing but 
the beautiful face of Lorelie Riviere. 

On the seat fronting the organ was a book, left behind 
probably by an oversight. Idris lifted the volume, a 
handsome one, bound in vellum and gold, and was much 
surprised at the title. 

Paulus Diaconus de Gestis Langobardorum” he read 
aloud. 

What a dreadful title ! ” murmured Beatrice. ** What 
does it mean ? ” 

It is Paul Warnefrid’s History of the Lombards^ a 

8o 


Idris Redivivus 


book you’ll scarcely meet with once in a lifetime. Quite 
a thrilling work, no doubt, to antiquaries of the Dryas- 
dust order, but I cannot imagine a lady taking to this 
style of literature. To begin with, it’s all in Latin : evi- 
dently she understands that language.” 

Perhaps the book does not belong to Mademoiselle 
Riviere.” 

The margin of almost every page contains notes in a 
lady’s handwriting — obviously the remarks of one who 
understands the work. She seems to have been a dili- 
gent student,” continued Idris, observing the numerous 
annotations. ** Ah ! what is this ? * The Fatal Skull,' 
written across the title-page. On other pages are the 
initials * F. S.,’ presumably standing for the same words, 
* Fatal Skull.’ See here, ‘ F. S.,’ and here again, * F. S.’ ” 
“ T/te Fatal Skull!'* said Beatrice in wonderment. 
<< What is meant by that ? ” 

At Beatrice’s request Idris translated some of the pas- 
sages marked with the letters “ F. S.,” but he failed to 
grasp their significance, there being no connection what- 
ever between a skull and the subject-matter of the para- 
graph. Then, becoming conscious that it was an unchiv- 
alrous proceeding to pry into an absent lady’s book, he 
was on the point of closing it, when his eye was caught 
by the following words written upon the fly-leaf : — 

Lorelie Riviere, 

1 6 , Place Graslin, 

Nantes. 

1 6 , Place Graslin ? ” murmured Idris in great surprise. 
** Heavens ! It was before the door of i6. Place Graslin 
that M. Duchesne was murdered twenty-seven years 
ago ! ” 


6 


Si 


CHAPTER IV 


THE SECRET OF THE RUNIC RING 

T he room that Godfrey Rothwell was accustomed 
to call his study was a small and cosy apartment, 
well furnished with books ; while, here and there, 
were many ornaments betraying the taste of Beatrice, 
for the room was jointly occupied by brother and sister. 
They loved to be together, and while Godfrey studied 
his medical tomes, Beatrice’s fingers would be busy with 
sewing or embroidery. 

On this particular evening the presence of Idris caused 
both study and needlework to be suspended. He had 
whetted the curiosity of his entertainers by affirming 
that his coming to Ormsby had something to do with the 
search for his father : he was, in fact, following a clue. 

His hearers pressed for enlightenment. 

Let us sit around the fire, and I will explain my 
meaning.” 

Drawing a comfortable arm-chair to the hearth Beatrice 
composed herself for what she felt was about to be an 
interesting disclosure. 

Among the papers,” Idris began, “ handed to me on 
my eighteenth birthday by my mother’s executors was a 
piece of vellum with runic letters upon it. Though 
eleven years had passed I immediately recognized these 
characters as being identical with those engraved on the 
Ring of Odin. My mother had had the forethought to 
make a copy of the inscription.” 

Here Idris paused, reading a question in Beatrice’s 
eyes. 


82 


The Secret of the Runic Ring 

** Have you the transcript with you ? ” she asked. “ It 
will be interesting to look at, though we do not under- 
stand it.” 

Idris produced from his pocketbook a scrap of vellum 
inscribed with four lines of tiny runic letters. 

“ And these are runes ? ” said Beatrice, looking at 
them attentively. “ They are very like the characters on 
the bugle that hangs within the porch of Ravenhall.” 

‘‘ Precisely,” said Godfrey, inasmuch as that is an old 
Norse drinking-horn. But we are interrupting Idris’ 
story.” 

The sight of this inscription naturally interested me,” 
continued Idris, “ and I resolved to make an attempt at 
its decipherment, in the hope that it might cast a ray of 
light upon the mystery of Duchesne’s murder, for I have 
always held to the belief that he was assassinated for the 
sake of the altar-ring. With this view I procured the 
services of a professor eminent for his knowledge of 
Norse antiquities, and under his tuition I began the study 
of runology. 

‘‘ I was soon able to read all the letters of the inscrip- 
tion, and to pronounce what I supposed were syllables 
and words : but syllables and words would not yield any 
sense. And here and there came a juxtaposition of con- 
sonants quite unpronounceable. To add to the difficulty 
there were no spaces to show where one word ended and 
another began. All the characters were equally close 
together and seemed to form one long word. I did my 
best to break the inscription up into its component parts, 
but failed. I could not distinguish one familiar term. 
Either the language was not old Norse, or the professor 
had taught me wrongly.” 

“ Why did you not lay the inscription before the pro- 
fessor,” asked Beatrice, and get him to decipher it for 
you ? ” 


83 


The Viking’s Skull 

** Because I did not wish any one to know the secret 
till I myself had first ascertained its value. In the belief 
that it might be written in some language other than old 
Norse I made incursions, not very deep, I fear, into 
Danish, Frisian, Icelandic, and other northern dialects, 
but failed to identify the inscription with any one of these 
tongues. 

“ At last in despair I cast aside the caution I had hith- 
erto exercised, and placed the writing before my tutor ; 
but, eminent runologist as he was, he could extract no 
meaning from it. 

“ Anxious to begin the search for my father, I parted 
from the Norse professor ; but yet, amid all my wander- 
ings through Europe, I never quite gave up the hope of 
being able to decipher the inscription. 

“ Now, a few weeks ago, it occurred to me that the art 
of secret writing may have been practised in Norse times 
just as in our own. Hitherto, following modern usage, I 
had always read the inscription from left to right : why 
not from right to left, as ancient Hebrew is read ? I 
tried the course, but it made me no wiser. 

“ However, the cryptographic idea grew upon me, and 
was not to be shaken off. As you perceive, it is a four- 
line inscription ; I therefore read downwards, combining 
the letters in the first line with those directly beneath in 
the second, third, and fourth lines, but with no success. 
I read upwards : disappointment was still my lot. I tried 
the plan of omitting every alternate letter. I seemed as 
far off as ever." 

“ But you succeeded in the end," said Beatrice. 

Yes. By playing at random with the letters, I hit 
upon the key to the decipherment. Observe this char- 
acter," continued Idris, pointing to one in the first line, 
shaped thus : — >|<. It is called Hagl, and corresponds 
to our H. As it is slightly larger than the other letters, 
84 


The Secret of the Runic Ring 

I had come to regard it as the initial one in the series, 
and the sequel proved that I was correct. Beginning 
with this Hagl, I omitted the three following letters, 
taking the fifth which corresponds to our i.” 

“ That gives us H-i," said Beatrice. 

Just so. Passing over the next three characters we 
come to the equivalent of our 1.*’ 

H-i-1,” said Beatrice. 

“ Proceeding in this way I add two more letters, and 
the result is a woman’s name, as common in Norse days 
as in our own.” 

“ You mean Hilda ? ” 

Precisely. Hilda is the first word of the inscription. 
Light had dawned at last. I had discovered the key to 
the writing, and it is this : every fourth letter is to be 
treated as if in immediate sequence. 

“ I instantly marked off the characters into sets of four. 
By taking out the first letter in each quartette, and plac- 
ing them in consecutive order, I found the result was an 
intelligible sentence. By treating the second letter of 
each quartette in like manner the sentence was con- 
tinued : and so with the third and fourth letters. There 
could be no doubt about it. I had mastered the secret 
of Odin’s Ring.” 

“ And what is the secret?” said Beatrice breathlessly. 

Idris could not avoid smiling at her eagerness. It was 
pleasant to have so fair and interested a listener. 

“ Impulsive Beatrice ! ” said Godfrey. “ Idris may wish 
to keep the secret to himself.” 

“ It will be very unfair, then, after having excited our 
curiosity,” she retorted. 

You shall have the secret,” said Idris ; “ though you 
will probably be as much disappointed with it as I was. 
There is nothing very startling in it. It does not relate 
to Odin and the gods of Valhalla, but to an old Viking 

85 


The Viking’s Skull 

and a buried treasure. This is my rendering of the 
Norse runes engraved on the broad perimeter of the 
ancient altar-ring.” 

And here Idris drew forth a second piece of vellum, 
and read from it as follows : — 

<< ‘ Hilda^ the Alruna, to her son, Magnus of 
Deira, greeting. — Within the lofty tomb of thy 
sire Orm, the Golden, wilt thou find the treasure 
won by his high arm. The noontide shadow of 
the oft-carried throne will be to thee for a sign. 

And may the fires of the Asas guard thy heri^ 
tage for thee. — Farewell! ” 

“ That,” continued Idris, after a pause, “ is the secret 
of Odin’s Ring : and though, as I have said, I was disap- 
pointed at first, yet in course of time I began to think 
that the knowledge I had acquired might furnish me 
with a clue — a very faint one, it is true, — towards dis- 
covering my father.” 

“ I fail to see how,” observed Godfrey. 

In this way. Captain Rochefort, who was instru- 
mental in effecting my father’s escape, possessed — so I 
have learned a copy of this runic inscription. Now, let 
us suppose that he and my father turned their attention 
to its decipherment, and, like myself, succeeded. Let us 
further grant that they had reasons for believing that the 
old Viking’s treasure still existed in the spot where it 
was originally placed. Allowing these premises, what is 
the conclusion ? ” 

That they would endeavour to possess themselves of 
this treasure.’' 

Just so. They would try to find the Viking’s tomb. 
Therefore, if I, too, could hit upon the place ” 

‘‘ I understand. You might come upon some trace of 
your father.” 


86 


The Secret of the Runic Ring 

‘‘That is my meaning. I admit that it is a very 
slender thread upon which to hang my hopes, but it is all 
that is left me. To find the burial-place of Orm the 
Golden became my next object, a somewhat difficult feat, 
seeing that he is a person who has altogether escaped the 
historian’s pen. However, I have succeeded." 

“What!" exclaimed Godfrey, incredulously. “You 
have discovered the burial-place of this unknown Viking, 
who, granting the reality of his existence, must have 
lived at least a thousand years ago ? " And on receiving 
a nod of affirmation, he asked, “ How did you accomplish 
it ? ‘ Within the lofty tomb of thy sire Orm^ the Golden^ " 

continued he, reading from Idris’ translation of the in- 
scription, “ ‘ wilt thou find the treasure^ won by his high 
arml There is nothing here to indicate the site of this 
‘ lofty tomb.’ " 

“ There is just a hint. Magnus, the Viking’s son, is 
said to be ‘ of Deira.’ I infer, therefore, that the father 
Orm was likewise of Deira ; that in Deira he lived, in 
Deira he died, and in Deira he was buried. ‘ Look for 
the tomb in Deira,’ became my watchword." 

“ Deira," said Beatrice quickly. “ Is not Deira the 
ancient name for this part of the country ? " 

“ Yes," Godfrey answered, “ and it is rather a wide 
area for our friend Idris to explore, seeing that the name 
included all the country from the Tyne to the Humber, 
and from the Pennines to the sea." 

“ True," assented Idris ; “ but we may narrow the area 
of our search considerably. These old Vikings had such 
love for the sea that they were usually buried within 
sound of the breakers. We shall not err, therefore, 
if we confine our attention to the sea-board only of 
Deira." 

“ Even then you will have a coast-line of more than 
one hundred miles to explore." 

87 


The Viking’s Skull 

“ A glance at an ordnance map will help us to fix the 
site.” 

“ In what way ? ” 

Thus. I take it that Orm the Viking, being master 
of much wealth, as is clear from the words on the ring, 
would build for himself a dwelling or castle by the sea. 
Around the abode of their chief the vassals and depend- 
ants would fix theirs, thus forming the nucleus of a town. 
Now what name would such a place be likely to take?” 

“ My dear Idris,” said Godfrey, protestingly, ** how can 
I tell ? — or you either ? ” he added. 

Well, like most town-names of Norse origin it would 
probably end in the syllable dy*' 

“ I will grant you that much — no more.” 

“ You cannot see at what I am aiming ? ” 

“ I am completely in the dark.” 

“ Receive a ray of light, then. Don’t you think that 
if this Orm built a town, that town would bear his 
name ? ” 

Surely you are not alluding to Ormsby ? ” 

But I am. This town must have received its name 
from some one called Orm, and it is my belief that this 
Orm was none other than the Viking who figures on the 
runic ring. In the neighbourhood of this town, then, we 
must look for the * lofty tomb ' of my Norse warrior. 
Now, four miles to the north of us, there is, so local 
guide-books say, a lonely valley called Ravensdale, con- 
taining ” 

Containing,” Beatrice broke in, excitedly, “ contain- 
ing a rounded, artificial hillock, over fifty feet high, and 
known by the name of Ormfell.” 

Ah ! I see you know it,” smiled Idris. Yes, Orm- 
fell, or Orm’s Hill, is the spot where I shall find the bones 
of the ancient Viking.” 

** And do you really intend,” asked Beatrice, “ to bore 
88 


The Secret of the Runic Ring 

your way to the heart of that hillock in order to see what 
it contains ? " 

“ Such is the purpose that has brought me to Ormsby, 
my object being to discover whether this tumulus ex- 
hibits traces of having been recently opened. It may be 
that in the sepulchral chamber within the hillock I shall 
light upon something that will afford a clue towards dis- 
covering my father. It may be a handkerchief merely, a 
discarded lantern, a tool, a match-box, a button, or some 
other article trifling in itself, but which a skilled detec- 
tive will know how to employ in tracing the man he 
wants. I may come even upon a pocketbook or a letter 
unwittingly dropped — who can tell ? Ormfell is my 
last hope. Fanciful as it may appear to you, Godfrey, 
something seems to whisper to me that the interior of 
that tumulus will furnish me with the means of lifting the 
veil that has so long shrouded my father’s fate.” 

There was in Idris’ manner a confidence which his 
hearers did not like to quell by the expression of cold 
doubt, though they considered his expectation fanciful in 
the extreme. 

“ Do you intend to obtain the earl’s sanction to make 
your excavations ? ” asked Beatrice. “ Ormfell stands on 
the Ravengar lands, you know.” 

“ Humph ! if I should ask for permission I may meet 
with a refusal. In such circumstances, therefore, I feel 
myself justified in committing a bold trespass.” 

** Well, if you should be caught, Mr. Breakspear,” said 
Beatrice with a blush, “ I will intercede for you with Lord 
Ormsby, for I believe I am rather a favourite of his.” 

Idris tendered her his thanks. He had almost forgot- 
ten that the pretty maiden sitting beside him might one 
day be the inheritrix of Ravenhall, and owner of those 
very lands the proprietary rights of which he was prepar- 
ing to set at naught. 


89 


The Viking’s Skull 

“ But/’ continued Beatrice, “ if you are not going to 
apply for the earl’s permission, how do you intend to 
escape observation ? ” 

By conducting my operations in the dead of night.” 

“ Break into a Viking's tomb in the dead of night ! 
What a weird idea ! ” 

“ I shall not be the first who has so acted. Miss 
Ravengar.” 

“ You will not object to my help, I presume?” God* 
frey remarked. 

“ On the contrary, I shall be glad of it.” 

“ I am half-disposed to join in this romantic business 
myself,” said Beatrice with a smile. “ How interesting if 
you should discover the treasure ! ” 

“We are not very likely to discover treasure that was 
secreted a thousand years ago,” commented Godfrey. 

“ And yet,” said Idris, “ many sepulchral barrows, 
opened in our day, are found to contain treasure — coins, 
drinking-horns, armour, and the like.” 

“ True : but in this case you forget that the words 
on the runic ring were an express invitation to Orm’s son 
— what was his name, Magnus ? — to possess himself of 
the treasure* He would not leave much for posterity to 
glean.” 

“Yes, if he received his mother’s ring; but how if it 
miscarried ? Hilda evidently lived far away from her son 
Magnus, else why should she have engraved her com- 
munication on metal, when she could more easily have 
delivered it viva voce and face to face ? The messenger 
entrusted with the ring may have gone astray. Travel- 
ling was a difficult matter in Norse times, and many perils 
beset the wayfarer, especially a wayfarer who carried any- 
thing worth stealing. Or consider this point, that though 
Magnus was capable of understanding the runic riddle — 
otherwise his mother would not have adopted such a 
90 


The Secret of the Runic Ring 

mode of communication — yet it does not follow that his 
son or successor was equally skilled. Supposing, then, 
that Magnus was dead when the messenger arrived with 
the ring, there may have been no one in Deira capable of 
interpreting the message. The ring might thus retain its 
secret, and the hillock its treasure, down to our own 
time.” 

Possible, but not probable,” smiled Godfrey. 
Beatrice’s eyes rested upon the vellum containing Idris* 
translation of the runic inscription. 

“ ‘ The fires of the Asas guard thy heritage for thee ! ’ ’* 
she read. What does that mean ? ” 

“ The Asas were the old Norse gods, who were sup- 
posed to dart forth flames upon any one venturing to dis- 
turb the sleep of the dead.” 

“Then beware, Mr. Breakspear,” she said playfully, 
“ for you are going the very way to evoke their wrath. 
* The noontide shadow of the oft-carried throne will be to 
thee for a sign,* How do you interpret that ? ” 

“ I wish I could answer you. Miss Ravengar. That 
sentence is an enigma I’ve never been able to solve. It 
is my intention to pay a visit to Ormfell at noon to- 
morrow, when an inspection of the hillock may perhaps 
throw some light on the matter.” 

Soon afterwards Beatrice retired for the night, but it 
was a long time before sleep came to her. She lay 
awake, thinking of Idris, and of the passionate look that 
came into his eyes at the sight of the beautiful Lorelie 
Riviere. 


91 


CHAPTER V 


“ THE SHADOW OF THE OFT-CARRIED THRONE 

F our miles to the north of Ormsby lies the valley 
of Ravensdale, extending due east and west, with 
sides steep and wall-like. 

The eastern end opens out upon the sea-beach, and 
here the width of the valley is greatest, the distance across 
being about half a mile. Farther inland the breadth con- 
tracts, and the sides approach each other till they meet in 
a narrow leafy gorge, whence issues the slender, silvery 
Ravensbec. 

The valley contains no human habitation. The only 
sounds that disturb the stillness are the melancholy mur- 
mur of the sea, and the occasional tinkling of sheep-bells. 

In the middle of the dale, and distant a few hundred 
yards from the beach, rises the eminence that for cen- 
turies has borne the name of Ormfell, an eminence circu- 
lar at the base, about fifty feet in height, and covered with 
green turf. 

Upon this hillock Idris was now gazing with deep in- 
terest. 

It was a beautiful summer morning, and with Beatrice 
for his companion he had come to take a view of the 
tumulus, preliminary to the task of breaking into it at 
night. 

“We want no geologist," he remarked, “ to tell us that 
this is an artificial elevation. Nature never carved out 
this pyramid ; it has been raised by the hand of man. 
This is the * lofty tomb * spoken of on the runic ring. 
92 


*^The Shadow of the Oft-Carried Throne’* 


Within the heart of this tumulus we shall find all that re- 
mains of old Orm the Viking.” 

Beatrice shared fully in his enthusiasm. She had seen 
the mound many a time, but now the words on the runic 
ring had invested the spot with a new and mysterious 
charm. 

“ Orm’s warriors were men with a taste for the pictur- 
esque,” she said. “ They could not have chosen a pret- 
tier place for the grave of their hero.” 

** Ay, close to the sea, that he doubtless loved well, as 
became a Norse Viking. And here for ages he has re- 
mained in solitary glory, with the surge forever murmur- 
ing his requiem.” 

“ This is certainly a tremendous mass of earth to pile 
over one poor mortal,” said Beatrice, contemplating the 
mound. 

‘‘ Every vassal was supposed to contribute one helmet- 
ful of soil to the grave of his chieftain.” 

“ J udged by that test Orm must have had a pretty 
numerous following,” said Beatrice. 

“ Or else each follower contributed more than the or- 
thodox helmetful. O, they could toil as well as fight, 
these old Norsemen. They were not afraid of work.” 

May the old Norse blood in us never die out, then ! ” 

“ Amen to that ! But I see an upright stone crowning 
the apex of our fell. Let us examine it. There may be 
runes upon it.” 

Idris extended his hand to Beatrice and assisted her up 
the side of the mound. Arrived at the summit he closely 
inspected the stone, which was a six-sided pillar, about 
four feet in height, black in colour, relieved here and 
there by curious red convolutions. 

So far as I can see,” he said, ** this pillar does not be- 
tray any mark of a tool. Its hexagonal shape, then, is 
due to nature. The stone is basalt, which often assumes 

93 


The Viking’s Skull 

a six-sided form. These red spirals are apparently sand- 
stone. It is evident that the mass of basalt, of which 
this pillar is a fragment, was forced upwards in an igneous 
liquid state through a bed of sandstone, taking up some 
of the latter in its passage. Hence these red convoluted 
bands.” 

“ I have heard that there is only one place in Europe 
where basalt of this character is to be found,” said Bea- 
trice, and that is in a certain valley of the Crimea.^’ 

“ It may be so. The old Norse people are said by 
some historians to have been of Scythian origin, and to 
have migrated from the region of the Crimea. Perhaps 
they carried this piece of basalt with them. It may have 
been a baituliofiy or holy stone ; in fact,” continued Idris, 
as he removed some moss from the foot of the pillar, 
there can be no doubt about it. Look on this side, and 
you will see why a sacred character was attributed to it. 
Tell me, Miss Ravengar, what does this red streak re- 
semble ? ” 

“ A curved sword ! ” cried Beatrice, in wonderment. 
“ Why have I never noticed it before ? A curved sword, 
with blade, hilt, and cross-guard, as perfect as if drawn by 
human hand.” 

“Just so. And history says that the ancient Scythians 
worshipped a scimitar — an appropriate deity for a bar- 
baric and warlike race. This hexagon, stamped with the 
image of their god, would be holy in their eyes. It 
would be their altar-stone, and a necessary companion in 
all their migrations.” 

Beatrice, not doubting the truth of Idris’ theory, gazed 
with a feeling almost akin to awe upon the mysterious 
stone, which the superstition of a far-off age had elevated 
to the rank of deity. Eternity seemed to be its attribute. 
In its presence she and Idris were but as the quickly- 
evaporating dew; long after their bodies should have 
94 


‘‘The Shadow of the Oft-Carried Throne"' 


crumbled to dust this altar would remain. A silent con- 
temporary of the rise and fall of past empires, it would 
survive the rise and fall of many to come. If ever stone 
was eloquent on the evanescence of all things human, 
surely this stone was ! 

Such were Beatrice’s thoughts, while Idris, more pro- 
saic, was on his knees, removing the earth from the foot 
of the pillar, and scraping the surface of the stone with 
his penknife in the hope of finding runic letters engraved 
upon it : but in this he met with disappointment ; each 
face of the hexagon was free from inscription. 

“ I was hoping,” he said, rising to his feet, “ to come 
upon some epitaph, such as, ‘ /, MagnuSy raise this stone 
to the memory of my sirey Orm* which would give me 
proof that I am on the right track, since, after all, my 
opinion that this is the tomb of the Golden Viking is 
purely conjectural.” 

They descended to level ground again, and Idris pro- 
ceeded to walk slowly around the base of the hillock, en- 
deavouring to take no more than a foot at each step. 

** The circumference is, roughly speaking, about one 
hundred and fifty feet,” he remarked, when he had com- 
pleted the circuit. “ The diameter, therefore, will be 
about fifty, and the centre about twenty-five feet off.” 

« If you have that distance, or nearly that distance, of 
solid earth to bore through, you have a hard task,” said 
Beatrice. 

“ My work will be of a much lighter nature, I trust. 
If this tumulus has been constructed like the generality 
of its kind, there should be a stone chamber in the centre 
with a stone passage leading to it from the side of the 
mound. Earth was piled over the mouth of the passage, 
but marks, usually taking the shape of two upright stones, 
were left to indicate the entrance.” 

“ What point of the compass did the Norsemen 

95 


The Viking’s Skull 

favour when constructing the entrance-passage of their 
tumuli ? " 

“ The point of ingress usually faced the east.” 

“ This is the easternmost point, nearest the sea,” said 
Beatrice, moving onward a few steps ; and full of their 
enterprise, she cried, “ Let us try to find the guide- 
stones.” 

They carefully surveyed the eastern curve of the base, 
Beatrice probing with the point of her sunshade, and 
Idris with the ferule of his walking-stick, among the long 
grass and bracken that grew in profusion at the foot 
of the hillock. Their search, however, was without 
result. 

“ I am at fault, it seems,” said Idris, or, it may be, 
the rain of centuries has washed down so much earth 
from the side of the mound that the guide-stones at its 
foot have become buried. We can do nothing without 
proper tools.” 

Let us explore all round,” suggested Beatrice, the 
spirit of adventure growing upon her. 

They examined the entire circuit of the base, and, 
when that investigation was over, were no wiser than 
when they had begun. 

Beatrice seated herself on a grassy bank facing the 
tumulus, and Idris took his place beside her. 

** This will never do,” he muttered, ruefully contem- 
plating the hillock. I must discover the mouth of the 
passage. If I begin to bore at any other point I might 
indeed reach the wall of the central chamber, but I should 
be on the outside, and it would be difficult, if not impos- 
sible, to make a way through the masonry. Besides, as 
I cannot admit the cooperation of any one but Godfrey, 
tunnelling through twenty feet of earth is a task that will 
take several nights, not to speak of the impossibility of 
concealing our work in the daytime.” 

96 


‘‘The Shadow of the Oft-Carried Throne’’ 


“ Or the risk of your tunnel falling upon you, in which 
case,” added Beatrice, demurely, “ you would have much 
ground for complaint.” 

“ Wicked Miss Ravengar ! Would you jest at my 
misfortunes ? I will defeat your hopes by finding the 
legitimate entrance.” 

And how do you propose to find it ? ” 

“ Well, I conceive that the entrance is shaped like an 
ordinary doorway, that is to say, it consists of two up- 
right stones a little distance apart, with a third resting 
horizontally upon them. I shall have to move round the 
base of the hillock with an iron implement, striking into 
the soil till I meet with stone. A little judicious probing 
will soon tell me whether it be a boulder, or one of the 
entrance-columns. If a boulder merely, I shall have to 
pass on, repeating my experiment.” 

“ But if these entrance-columns stand well within the 
hillock you may go all round without lighting upon 
them.” 

“ In that case I shall have to begin again, and strike 
deeper.” 

<< Even then you may fail. You are arguing on the 
supposition that the mouth of the passage must be on a 
level with the base of the hillock, whereas it may be 
higher, six, nine, or twelve feet above level ground. 
And,” pursued Beatrice, “ if you conduct your operations 
in the manner you describe, it will be difficult to keep 
your work secret. The disturbed state of the soil, and 
the uprooting of the herbage, will tell a tale to the earl’s 
bailiffs.” 

“ Humph ! these are difficulties which call for a che- 
root,” replied Idris. You have no objection. Miss 
Ravengar ? Thank you,” he continued, lighting it. 
“ Now to put on my thinking-cap.” 

Reclining upon the grass he puffed thoughtfully at his 
7 97 


The Viking’s Skull 

cheroot, and gazed at the green mound that seemed to 
be quietly mocking his endeavours. 

“ Ormfell appears determined to keep its secret,” said 
Beatrice. “We want Belzoni here.” 

“Belzoni? ‘I thank thee, Jew,’ — or shall I say 
Jewess ? — ‘for teaching me that word.’ Shall an Italian 
find his way to the heart of the great stone pyramid, 
while I, an Englishman, am to be defeated by a paltry 
cone of earth, fifty feet only in diameter? Never ! ” he 
exclaimed, theatrically. “ How,” he continued, knitting 
his brows in perplexity, “ how were the Norsemen them- 
selves enabled to remember where the point of ingress 
lay ? They must surely have left some mark to indicate 
itJ’ 

For the twentieth time that morning Idris murmured 
the inscription on the runic ring. 

“ ‘ Within the lofty tomb of thy sire, Orm the Golden, 
wilt thou find the treasure wo7t by his high ann. The 
noontide shadow of the oft-carried throne will be to thee 
for a sign! How long am I to be baffled by this dark 
oracle ? What is meant by the ‘ oft-carried throne ’ ? ” 

The light of understanding suddenly leaped into Bea- 
trice’s eyes, and she pointed excitedly to the piece of 
basalt crowning the summit. 

“ Mr. Breakspear, are not the words ‘ oft-carried ’ very 
applicable to that stone, if it has really been brought 
over sea and land from the Crimea ? Is not that the 
‘ throne ’ alluded to ? ” 

The cheroot dropped from Idris’ lips, and he sprang to 
his feet with a cry of exultation. 

“ By heaven ! Miss Ravengar, you are right. ‘ Oft- 
carried throne?’ Yes, that must be it! As the holy 
baitulion of a tribe, marked with the image of their deity, 
it would doubtless be the stone on which the new chief 
would stand when invested with kingly rule. That 
98 


The Shadow of the Oft-Carried Throne*' 


piece of basalt was a kind of Lia Fail^ like the corona- 
tion-stone at Westminster.” 

“ Ormfell is becoming more interesting than ever,” 
said Beatrice, her eyes sparkling with pleasure at having 
solved a problem that had perplexed Idris so long. We 
have discovered the oft-carried throne, and the oft-carried 
throne is to be to us for a sign. A sign of what?” 

“ Indicative of the entrance, I presume, otherwise there 
would be no reason for engraving the fact on the ring.” 

“ Do the words mean that the stone stands over the 
entrance itself? If we remove it, shall we discover the 
mouth of a shaft ? ” 

“ Scarcely, I think : for, if so, the stone would be a 
sign at all hours of the twenty-four, whereas the language 
of the ring restricts its significance to the noontide hour 
only.” 

“ It wants an hour yet to noon,” said Beatrice, referring 
to her watch. 

“ Good ! We will wait till then. I have formed my 
opinion. Mark my words. Miss Ravengar, we shall find 
that the entrance is on the northern side. The noontide 
hour will show whether I am right.” 

And Idris, resuming his fallen cheroot, relighted it, and 
reclining once more upon the grassy bank, waited for the 
time to pass, while Beatrice sat beside him in a state of 
pleasing suspense. 

“ Now if my grandfather were here,” she remarked, 
he might be able to tell us whether or not Ormfell con- 
tains the treasure, without taking the trouble to break into 
the tumulus.” 

‘‘ Then your grandfather must have been a remarkably 
clever fellow.” 

“ He was. By simply walking barefoot over the 
ground he was able to tell whether metals lay below, and 
not only that, but the depth even at which they lay. He 

99 


L.cFC. 


The Viking’s Skull 

has been known to point out and trace accurately the 
course of water, veins of metal, coal-measures, and the 
like." 

“ I have heard of similar feats performed by miners of 
the Hartz Mountains," said Idris, “ but have always re- 
garded such stories as apocryphal. Had your grand- 
father any theory to account for his marvellous power ? " 

“ His idea was that the proximity of metals imparted a 
peculiar sensation to the soles of his feet, the intensity of 
the impression being a measure of their nearness to the 
surface. His belief was that metals cast off subtle exhala- 
tions capable of being detected by a highly magnetic or* 
ganism, which his undoubtedly was." 

“ There may be something in that theory. There are 
persons who cannot enter the Mint without fainting." 

“ He always maintained," Beatrice went on, “ that 
this valley of Ravensdale was the centre of a rich coal- 
field." 

“ Your grandfather’s power of divining for metals has 
not descended to you and Godfrey, I presume ? " 

“ I sometimes think it has — in a slight degree. We 
still keep his walking-stick cut from the witch-hazel. 
This stick would turn visibly in his hands at the prox- 
imity of metals ; it has sometimes turned in Godfrey’s 
hands, and more than once in mine.” 

“ Strange ! Well, if this stick is capable of being 
affected by metals let Godfrey by all means bring it with 
him to-night,” said Idris, more in jest than in earnest. 
“ The treasures of the Viking, supposing them to be still 
within the hillock, may lie concealed under the floor of 
the chamber, and we shall be at a loss to know at what 
point to dig for them." 

The minutes moved tardily on, and as the meridian 
hour approached, Beatrice said : — 

Have you noticed how the shadow cast by the stone 
lOO 


‘‘The Shadow of the Oft-Carried Throne” 


creeps slowly along over the face of the ground ? This 
hillock could easily be turned into a giant sun-dial.” 

“ You echo my thoughts, Miss Ravengar. And it 
seems to me that this shadow will furnish us with the clue 
we want.” 

“ You mean that the shadow of the stone will fall on 
the very spot where the entrance is ? ” 

“ Not quite : for in that case the shadow would be an 
uncertain guide, varying with the sun’s altitude at the 
different seasons : and, besides, you will notice that the 
shadow is many yards from the foot of the tumulus. It 
is not probable that the secret entrance lies so far off. 
No : my idea is this. Connect the oft-carried throne and 
its shadow with an ideal line, and near the point where 
this line cuts the base of the hillock will be found the 
mouth of the passage. It is the noontide hour now,” 
continued Idris, rising. “ We will put a little pile of 
stones to mark the spot where the apex of the shadow 
falls — so,” he added, suiting the action to the word. 
“ Now all we have to do is to walk from this point to the 
foot of the hillock, keeping in a bee-line with that piece 
of basalt on the summit, and, unless I err, we shall hit 
upon the entrance.” 

Speaking thus, Idris began his experiment. When he 
had come to the foot of the hillock, Beatrice observed 
with surprise that the thick, heavy walking-stick carried 
by him was in reality the receptacle for a long and stout 
sword. This weapon he pushed into the side of the hill- 
ock at the spot touched by the imaginary line. 

After a series of probings, begun on a level with the 
ground and continued in an upward direction, Idris 
paused with a gleam of excitement on his face. Chang- 
ing the direction, he resumed his probing, moving hori- 
zontally to the right and stopping again. Then he con- 
tinued the movement, this time coming downward, so that 

lOI 


The Viking’s Skull 

the course of his sword had described three sides of a rec- 
tangle. 

“ Miss Ravengar," he cried, in a voice of emotion, “ I 
have found the entrance ! As I live, I have found it ! 
Here, hidden within the soil, are two stone blocks a little 
distance apart, with a third resting crosswise upon them, 
the three forming a kind of doorway. We have only to 
remove the earth overlying them, and we shall find a hol- 
low passage beyond.” 

Beatrice’s cheek coloured with pleasure as Idris con* 
tinned : — 

“ Miss Ravengar, you have proved yourself a valuable 
auxiliary. But for your explanation I might still be 
puzzling my mind as to the meaning of ‘ the oft-carried 
throne.’ I offer you a somewhat problematic reward. 
Whatever spoil is found within shall be divided equally 
between us.” 

“ Merci ! But are you not promising too much ? Is 
not treasure-trove the property of the Crown ? ” 

** Provided that the Crown hears of the discovery.” 

Fie, Mr. Breakspear ! you would corrupt my hon- 
esty.” 

I can depart now with a hopeful heart for to-night’s 
work. I shall have but little difficulty in penetrating to 
the interior of the hillock. We have no need to mark 
the entrance. Nature has already done it for us.” 

He pointed to a cluster of white flowers growing upon 
the side of the hillock. Beatrice had no sooner set eyes 
upon them than an expression of surprise stole over her 
face. 

“ Do you know the name of this flower ? ” she said. 
“ It is the vernal mandrake.” 

“ What ? The mandragora of the ancients ? — the 
plant that played so potent a factor in classic witch- 
craft ? ” 


102 


*^The Shadow of the Oft-Carried Throne’* 


** The same.” 

Idris gazed with considerable interest upon the pale 
mysterious plant around which so many weird supersti- 
tions have gathered. 

** And a curious circumstance it is,” continued Beatrice, 
who was somewhat of a botanist, ** that it should be 
growing here.” 

Why so ? ” 

** Because it is a plant requiring cultivation. It does 
not grow wild, at least not in this country.” 

“ Then your inference is that it has been planted here 
by human agency ? ” 

“ Sown is perhaps a better word than planted. It 
certainly did not spring up spontaneously from the 
soil.” 

“ Hum ! This raises a curious question. For what 
purpose was it sown ? Is some one carrying on botanic 
experiments here ? Or shall we say that my projected 
visit to the interior of the tumulus has been forestalled, 
and my unknown forerunner, desirous of renewing his 
visit at an early date, has left these tokens here to mark 
the point of entrance, probably having had the same 
difficulty as ourselves in discovering it ? What simpler 
plan could he adopt than just to sprinkle here a few seeds 
of the white-flowering mandrake ? ” 

Beatrice had nothing to say either for or against this 
last theory, and, after puzzling themselves in vain to ac- 
count for the presence of the mandrake, they set off for 
Ormsby. 

On their way they passed a small workshop belonging 
to the cemetery-mason. The man himself was standing 
at the door, and Beatrice stopped to exchange a few 
civilities with him. 

“ Well, Robin, how is the world using you ? ” she 
asked pleasantly. 


103 


The Viking’s Skull 

** Rather badly of late. The people of Ormsby seem 
to live longer than they used to do." 

“ I am afraid my brother is partly responsible for 
that," said Beatrice demurely. “ It is his business to 
oppose yours, you see." 

“No one seems to want a tombstone nowadays," con- 
tinued the man gloomily. “ However, I had a little 
work put in my way yesterday by Mademoiselle 
Riviere." 

“ Mademoiselle Riviere ! " echoed Beatrice in surprise. 
“ What order has she given you ? " 

“You have perhaps heard that more than twenty 
years ago an unknown vessel was wrecked in Ormsby 
Race. Four bodies only were washed ashore, and these 
were buried in a corner of St. Oswald’s churchyard. 
Mademoiselle Riviere has obtained permission of the 
Rector to place a marble cross over their grave." 

“ Did she say why she takes such an interest in these 
drowned men ? " asked Beatrice. 

“ Well, as to that I was a little bit curious myself, and 
so I could not help putting a question or two. Madem- 
oiselle said she had good reason for believing that the 
lost vessel was French : and being French herself she 
felt a desire to honour their grave. If you will step in- 
side, I will show you what she has chosen." 

Idris, who felt a strange interest in Mademoiselle 
Riviere, required no second bidding, and with Beatrice 
entered the workshop, where the mason exhibited with 
manifest pride a cross of Sicilian marble, standing on a 
base of the same material. This pedestal was wrought in 
the shape of a rock, and decorated with seaweed and an 
anchor. 

“ What is the epitaph to be ? " asked Idris, after some 
words complimentary to the mason’s skill. 

The man produced a paper upon which was written, 
104 


** The Shadow of the Oft-Carried Throne 


in the same delicate, flowing penmanship that had 
adorned the margin of the Lombard historian, the fol- 
lowing words : — 


“ Sacred 

To THE Memory 

OF 

The Drowned. 

October 13TH, 1876. 

* He that is without sin, let him first 
cast the stone! ” 

Idris laid down the paper, and, after a few more words 
with the mason, the two went on their way again. 

“ Mademoiselle Riviere must know something more 
about those shipwrecked men than that they were 
Frenchmen merely,” observed Idris. “ If the verse cited 
is to have any application at all, it must mean that the 
drowned men were guilty of — I know not what, but 
something upon which the world would not look leni- 
ently. Hence, perhaps, the absence of their names from 
the epitaph.” 

You think she knows their names ? ” 

<< Without doubt. Why should a lady erect a costly 
memorial over the grave of men of whom she knows 
nothing ? If I may venture a conjecture I should say 
that she must be related to one of them. * He that is 
without sin, let him first cast the stone.* I have often 
thought that that verse might very well form a part of 
my father's epitaph.” 


105 


CHAPTER VI 

“THE FIRES OF THE ASAS ! ” 

M idnight was chiming from a distant church- 
tower as Idris and Godfrey stood on the edge 
of the upland that overlooked the valley of 
Ravensdale. 

They had left Wave CreSt at eleven o’clock, and fol- 
lowing a circuitous route, and favoured by the late hour, 
had succeeded in reaching their destination without at- 
tracting notice. 

Beatrice had begged hard to accompany them, but this 
Godfrey would not permit. So she watched them from 
the garden-gate till they were out of sight, and then re- 
turned indoors to alarm herself by reading the adventures 
of Belzoni in the Great Pyramid, finding some sort of 
affinity between the expedition of Idris and that of the 
enterprizing Paduan. 

The night was lovely and cloudless, with a full moon 
shining from a sky of darkest blue. 

Shimmering white in the hallowed radiance arose the 
lofty tomb of the long-buried Viking, and as the two 
friends made their way towards it the character of the 
undertaking began to oppress the mind of Godfrey with 
various strange fancies. What the interior of the hillock 
would reveal he could not tell ; but he had forebodings 
of something grim and ghostly. Though it was of his 
own free will that he came, yet now, brought close to the 
intended task, he shrank from it, and found himself yield- 
ing to a spirit of fear. 

He could not but admire the unconcern of his com- 
io6 


‘‘The Fires of the Asas!” 


panion, who strode gallantly forward, humming the 
chorus of a hunting-song. 

“ Confound yon bright moon ! ” muttered Idris. “ If 
any of the coast-guard should stroll this way, we are cer- 
tain to be seen.” 

Arrived at the northernmost point of the tumulus, he 
flung down the sack that he had carried containing the 
implements necessary for excavation, and turning his 
eyes upon the side of the hillock began to look about for 
the white-flowering mandrake that betokened the point 
of ingress. 

He glanced quickly from right to left, but, to his sur- 
prise, the plant was nowhere to be seen. 

Here’s a mystery ! What has become of the man- 
drake? — No matter: there's the pile of pebbles I set up 
on the spot where the shadow of the stone fell. I have 
but to repeat my former experiment.” 

Making his way to the little heap Idris faced about, and 
then began to walk towards the hillock, keeping in a di- 
rect line with the stone upon its apex. 

On reaching the base of the tumulus he paused and 
remained stationary, with his back to Godfrey, and his 
gaze riveted on the side of the mound. There was 
something so peculiar in the rigidity of his attitude, and 
in his long-continued silence, that Godfrey’s heart quick- 
ened with an unknown fear, a fear that deepened, when 
Idris, with a scared face turned slowly round, and, as if 
the power of speech had left him, beckoned with his 
finger for the surgeon to come forward. 

** Look there ! ” he said in a hoarse voice, clutching 
Godfrey with one hand, and pointing with the other. 

Tell me whether I see aright. What’s that ? ” 

And there, protruding from the side of the hillock in 
tlie place where the mandrake had grown, was — a human 
hand ! 


107 


The Viking’s Skull 

A human hand, rising from the earth, motionless and 
rigid, the crooked fingers seeming to tell of the agony of 
a death by suffocation. 

Some one, since the morning, had been trying to force 
a way through the soil at the entrance of the passage, and 
had lost his life in the attempt. 

Such was Idris’ first thought. A closer inspection, 
however, showed that the event had not happened that 
day. The nails had fallen from the fingers, and there 
was, besides, a decayed, vegetable look about the hand, 
differing altogether from the aspect presented by the skin 
of the newly-dead. How Idris came to overlook it dur- 
ing his morning visit was a mystery, since the hand must 
have been in its present position for several days, if not 
for several weeks. Its sudden exposure was perhaps due 
to the afternoon storm, which had washed away a portion 
of the soil. 

To endeavour to ascertain the identity of the victim 
by pulling at the withered hand, and thus bringing the 
decayed form to view, was an act that not only Idris 
shrank from, but even Godfrey, the surgeon, familiar with 
the disjecta membra of the dissecting room. 

Then Idris, bending forward to examine the hand more 
closely, gave vent to a peal of laughter. 

“ Brave heroes we are to be frightened by a plant ! It 
is nothing but the root of the mandrake.” 

Godfrey drew a breath of relief, as he assured himself 
by a nearer view that what he had taken for a human 
hand was indeed the withered root of the mandrake, so 
apt to assume strange and unaccountable shapes. 

Yet, to save his life, he durst not put forth his hand to 
touch it. 

If such were the terrors guarding the exterior of the 
tomb, what might he not expect to find in the interior ? 

‘‘ Now, Godfrey, our silly fright being over, to work! 

io8 


“The Fires of the Asas!” 


1 will dig while you watch. Take a seat on this boulder 
here, and if you should see anybody coming, give the 
word and I will suspend operations for a while. There 
cannot be more than five or six feet of earth to knock 
away, and then the passage will be open to our view. 
The work ought not to take long.” 

Godfrey did as desired, and Idris flung off ulster, coat, 
and vest. Rolling his shirt-sleeves above the elbow, he 
drew the tools from the sack and selected a spade. 

** Now to disturb the repose of old Orm the Golden ! ” 
he cried, excitement sparkling from his eyes. “ Now to 
evoke the fires of the Asas ! ” 

The sickly, withered mandrake-root, with its resem- 
blance to a human hand, fronted him, and as if in con- 
tempt of his former fears, he drove the edge of the spade 
clean through the stalk. The separated parts seemed to 
quiver and writhe in a manner extremely suggestive of 
animal-life. 

A thrill of terror shot through his frame, and, spade 
in hand, he paused, staring at the root ; for, simultane- 
ously with its dissection, there came a sound, bearing re- 
semblance to a plaintive human cry. 

It was not the creation of his fancy, since Godfrey too 
had heard it. 

“ In the name of all that’s holy what was that ? ” he 
asked, starting up from the stone upon which he had been 
sitting. 

“ That is what I should like to know,” said Idris, try- 
ing to look unconcerned. It came — or seemed to 
come — from this plant here. The poet speaks of : — 

* Shrieks like mandrakes tom from the ground ! ’ 

but I never thought to hear them in my own per- 
son.” 


109 


The Viking’s Skull 

He toyed idly with the spade, desirous, yet almost 
afraid, of making a second stroke. 

In all his life Godfrey had never been so much alarmed 
as he was at that moment. 

“ Idris, let us leave this business — at least, for to- 
night.” 

His words acted as a stimulus to the other’s courage. 

“ Leave it? Never! till I have forced my way to the 
heart of this hillock, and wrested the secret from it. On 
the very point of discovery must we turn back, frightened 
by a sound, the cry, probably, of some night-bird ? We 
are not the first to break into a Norse barrow at mid- 
night. Shall we be outdone in enterprise by others ? 
No: though ‘the dead Viking rise up, sword in hand, to 
repel me, yet will I go on.” 

. And with this Idris lifted the spade, and attacked the 
side of the hillock, savagely cutting the mandrake root to 
fragments, half expecting to hear the weird cry again. 
But the sound, whatever its origin, was not repeated. 

Finding the earth to be hard conglomerate, and not 
easily susceptible to impressions from the spade, Idris laid 
that tool aside, and, fitting the wooden shaft of a pickaxe 
into its iron head, proceeded to reduce the conglomerate 
to a crumble, which he then tossed aside with the spade, 
labouring alternately with the two implements. 

No word escaped him : he was too much interested in 
the work to waste his breath in words. His efforts soon 
unearthed two large unhewn blocks of stone standing a 
little distance apart. 

Fired to fresh energy by this sight, a proof that he was 
working in the right direction, he continued his excava- 
tions between the two blocks. After the lapse of a few 
minutes he paused, and thrust his arm up to the shoulder 
through an aperture appearing in the conglomerate. 

lo triumphe ” he exclaimed. ** Empty space behind 

no 


‘‘The Fires of the Asas!” 


this. A little more labour, and we shall be able to crawl 
into the passage beyond.” 

Declining Godfrey’s repeated offers of assistance, Idris 
resumed his work enthusiastically, dealing stroke after 
stroke upon the wall of earth that barred his way. Down 
came the black soil with a rush, as if glad to meet free 
air after an imprisonment of centuries. Wider and wider 
grew the aperture, revealing an open space beyond : and, 
at last, flinging down his tools, Idris declared that the 
way was now open to the interior. 

Where’s the lantern, Godfrey ? ” 

The surgeon was already fumbling about in the sack. 
With an exclamation of dismay he rose to his feet and 
gave it a shake, but nothing came forth. 

** By heaven ! Godfrey, don’t say that we have left the 
lantern behind ! ” 

“ That is just what we have done.” 

“ At least, the match-box is there.” 

“ No : that, too, is a minus article.” 

Idris breathed a malediction. As he himself had at- 
tended to the putting up of their paraphernalia, the omis- 
sion was his own, and no blame attached to Godfrey. 

The neglect seemed irremediable. It was out of the 
question to return to Ormsby for the lantern, and yet, 
without a light, it would be hazardous to grope their way 
through darkness to the interior of the hillock. To be 
so near the point of discovery, and yet so far off, was 
maddening. 

I shall not return without some attempt at explora- 
tion,” cried Idris. “ We’ll have to grope about in the 
dark and try what we can discover in that way.” 

Godfrey was almost ready to drop at this weird sug- 
gestion. 

** Stay a moment ! ” continued Idris, stooping over his 
vest, and feeling in the pockets, surely I have some 
III 


The Viking’s Skull 

matches here. Yes,” he added, with a cry of delight, 
drawing forth a metallic box. Here they are ! How 
many ? Three, as I live ! Three only ! Humph ! we 
shall have to economize our slender resources. We must 
feel our way along the passage. I’ll walk a few steps 
ahead of you, so that if any hurt should befall me, take 
warning yourself, and help me if you can. We’ll not 
strike these vestas till we are fairly within the central 
chamber. We may learn something from their glimmer.” 

Idris, having resumed his coat and vest, was on the 
point of leading the way, when he suddenly became im- 
pressed with the idea that there might be some hidden 
danger within the hillock, and for Beatrice’s sake it was 
not right that Godfrey should be drawn into it. 

But the surgeon, though indeed reluctant to go forward, 
was nevertheless unwilling to be considered a coward, and 
demurred to the suggestion that he should remain at the 
entrance till Idris had first paid a visit to the interior. 

“ Seriously speaking,” said Idris, “ I do not see what 
danger there can be, but still there is the possibility of it, 
and I ought to meet it alone. Beatrice would never for- 
give me if harm should befall you. Stay here till I have 
made a brief exploration.” 

While speaking he caught sight of the walking-stick 
with which Godfrey’s grandfather had been accustomed 
to perform his feats of divination. It was curiously 
shaped, carved so as to represent a serpent twining round 
a wand, the head of the reptile being set with two green, 
glittering stones in imitation of eyes. 

Pass me your ancestral caduceusl' he said. It will 
serve to guide my steps. I wish these eyes were lamps ! ” 

Then, waving the surgeon back, he stepped within the 
dark hole, which seemed, in Godfrey's imagination, to 
gape like the mouth of a great dragon about to swallow 
its victim. 


II2 


^‘The Fires of the Asas!” 


Idris’ sensations on entering the passage were far from 
agreeable. Though the moonlight without was brilliantly 
white, not a ray of it found entrance to the passage ; the 
air within was black and terrible, and as solid-looking as 
if formed of ebony. 

His progress was slow and tedious, from the necessity 
imposed upon him of halting at each step to feel his way. 
Before lifting his foot he carefully explored the ground in 
front of him with the stick, and he touched in turn the 
sides of the passage as well as the roof. The corridor, 
judged by this test, was about seven feet in height and 
four in width. Roof, walls, and flooring were composed 
apparently of solid masonry. 

After taking about twenty paces Idris, extending the 
rod on each side of him, found that it touched nothing. 
The passage had opened out into something wider. 

He judged that he had entered the mortuary chamber, 
and was now standing in the presence of the dead. 

What awesome sight did the black darkness hide ? 

For all he knew to the contrary, not one, but many 
Vikings might be entombed here, disposed at different 
points of the chamber, their bodies preserved from decay 
by embalming. Like the lost and frozen dead men, seen 
sometimes by navigators in northern seas, they might be 
in sitting posture, staring with fixed and glassy eyes as if 
daring him to advance. 

The temptation to obtain a glimpse of the place by 
striking one of the matches was very great, but he re- 
frained from the action, resolving that Godfrey should 
share the sight. 

Before calling upon him to follow, a sudden desire 
came upon Idris to grope his way once around the 
interior. 

Exploring the darkness with his stick he soon hit upon 
the chamber-wall at the point where it shot off at right 

8 113 


The Viking’s Skull 

angles to the side of the passage. Passing his hand over 
its surface, an action accompanied on his part by a feel- 
ing of disgust, the masonry being wet and slimy, he dis- 
covered what seemed to be a rusty rod extending in a 
horizontal line along the wall at the height of about six 
feet from the ground. Puzzled at first to account for its 
use he came to the conclusion that it had once served to 
uphold the tapestry with which the interiors of these old 
Norse tombs were sometimes decorated. The tapestry 
itself was gone, crumbled to dust, perhaps, with the lapse 
of time, but the metallic rod remaining would serve to 
conduct him round the chamber. 

He shot a glance through the passage just traversed 
by him : the darkness swallowed up its perspective, ren- 
dering it impossible for the eye to form any judgment as 
to its length. The entrance seemed close by, a square 
patch of white light, in which was framed a dark stoop- 
ing figure, that of Godfrey, vainly endeavouring to keep 
an eye on his venturesome friend. 

Idris turned from the passage, and holding the rod 
with his left hand, and grasping the stick in his right, he 
advanced slowly and cautiously along the side of the 
chamber-wall, over ground that had, perhaps, been un- 
trodden for ten centuries. 

After taking six paces he was brought to a halt by the 
wall inclining again at right angles. He had evidently 
reached one corner of the stone chamber. 

Turning his face in this new direction, and still sub- 
mitting to the guidance of the supposed tapestry-rod, he 
continued his progress, exploring the way before him 
with the stick. 

He paused again as his left hand came in contact with 
a small triangular shred of cloth hanging to the rod. It 
was apparently a fragment of tapestry. There might be 
other and larger portions farther on, which, in view of 
114 


*‘The Fires of the Asas!’’ 


their antiquity, would be of considerable value. Pleased 
with the idea that he would not come away from the 
tomb altogether empty-handed he was about to move 
forward again, when his attention was suddenly diverted 
to the stick he was carrying. 

Without the exercise of any volition on his part it 
was slowly inclining itself downwards. There was no 
mistaking the fact, and the knowledge came upon him 
as a disagreeable surprise. It was as if the serpent-rod 
had suddenly become instinct with life. 

His first impulse was to cast it from him, but thinking 
that its downward motion might be due to the relaxed 
state of his muscles, he raised and extended the stick 
horizontally : he kept it in that position, but it was evident 
to his sense of feeling that the rod manifested a tendency 
to assume an oblique direction, just as if a thread were 
tied to its extremity, and some one below lightly pulling 
it. 

What was the cause of this? Must he dismiss his 
former scepticism, and believe in the powers of the di- 
vining rod ? Had this staff of witch-hazel, electrified by 
the nervous force of his own body, become transformed 
for the moment into a sort of magnet, capable of being 
attracted by metals ? Was he standing on the site of the 
Viking’s buried treasure ? Was the very treasure itself 
lying upon the clay flooring at his feet ? If he struck a 
match would his eye be caught by the sparkle of silver 
and gold? No: he would reserve the light, and make 
what discoveries he could without it. 

Relinquishing his hold of the metallic rod he dropped 
upon his knees, and with his face bent low, put forth his 
hands. 

5K * 

Hark ! What was that ? 

The silent watcher at the entrance started. 

115 


The Viking’s Skull 

A faint cry from the interior of the hillock as of one 
calling for help, and then stillness. 

For some time Godfrey had kept his ear close to the 
flooring of the passage, a position which enabled him to 
follow the footsteps of Idris. But now these footsteps 
had ceased, their* cessation being followed shortly after- 
wards by the cry. 

Godfrey continued to listen, but though straining his 
ear to the utmost he could not detect the faintest sound. 
A suspiciously horrible stillness prevailed within. 

Idris ! Idris ! ” he called out, sending the full volume 
of his voice along the passage : and Idris ! Idris ! ” was 
echoed from the roof in tones that seemed like a mockery 
of his own. If the dead in the sepulchral chamber were 
gibing at him the effect could not have been more weird. 

Again he called aloud, and again there was no answer, 
save the echoes of his own voice. 

“ My God ! what has happened ? ” he cried. 

There fell upon him a terror like that which has turned 
men’s hair grey in a single night. He did not doubt, he 
could not doubt, that some disaster had happened : he 
must hasten to the rescue : duty, humanity, friendship, 
honour — all these blending together in a voice of thun- 
der urged him forward. Every moment was precious ; 
and yet to venture into the dark chamber without a light 
seemed a piece of folly, for what was there to prevent 
him from meeting with the same fate as Idris ? 

He rose to his feet and turned his eyes towards the 
cliffs and sea-beach in the hope of seeing a coast-guard 
whose lantern would at this juncture be of inestimable 
service. But alas ! no coast-guard was visible, and to go off 
in search of one was out of the question, when a minute 
might make all the difference between life and death. 

No : he must venture in alone, and without a light, 
and he nerved himself for the task. Casting one glance 
1 16 


*‘The Fires of the Asas!” 


at the sky, the sea, the land, as objects he might never 
see again, he snatched up the pickaxe to serve as a 
weapon of defence, against he knew not whom or what, 
and plunged into the mouth of the excavation that 
yawned black and grim before him. 

His course through the passage was much quicker 
than that of Idris had been. There could be no danger 
here, seeing that Idris had traversed it in safety. There- 
fore the surgeon groped his way swiftly along the wall 
of the corridor until it suddenly turned off at right angles, 
whence he concluded that he was at the entrance of the 
sepulchral chamber. 

Idris, where are you ? ” he cried. 

There was no vocal reply, but a faint splash greeted his 
ears like the movement of a hand through water, a sound 
which Godfrey interpreted as an answer. 

For a terrible idea had seized him. The floor of the 
chamber was of earth only, and not of masonry, he 
thought : and the rain of centuries, percolating through 
the roof, had converted this flooring into a quagmire in- 
capable of supporting the lightest weight. Idris had 
become immersed in it : had just sunk below the surface : 
his voice was gone : he had just given his last gasp ! 

How was he to save him ? One step forward, and he 
himself might be in the abyss of mud. 

To test his opinion he flung the pickaxe forward, taking 
care to avoid the spot whence came the splash. As it 
fell Godfrey drew a breath of relief. The clangour made 
by the falling implement proved that the quagmire was 
the creation of his fancy. Still, what had become of 
Idris that he made no reply ? He must be somewhere 
within this chamber, seeing that there was no egress from 
it except by the passage. O for a light, if only that of a 
match ! Its momentary gleam would suffice to dispel the 
mystery. 


117 


The Viking’s Skull 

He listened for Idris’ breathing, but failed to detect 
any sound : Idris, if he were really here, was as still as 
the dead. 

There was no other course for Godfrey than to grope 
about until he came upon the body of Idris, an unpleas- 
ant task, seeing that it might bring him into contact with 
the bones of Vikings ! 

He started forward at random. Five paces, and his 
knee knocked against some obstruction. Putting out his 
hand he ascertained that directly in front of him was 
something formed of hewn stone. 

With an instinctive feeling that this was a tomb, God- 
frey gave it a wide range, and in so doing stumbled and 
fell over another object. 

It was a human body. In a moment Godfrey was 
upon his knees, and passing his hand quickly over the 
prostrate figure he discovered that it was Idris in a state 
of coma. 

Quickly he felt for the match-box which Idris had put 
into his vest pocket, and on finding it, drew it forth. 
Taking out one of the wax-lights he struck it on the side 
of the box. 

Never within Godfrey’s experience had the striking of 
a match been attended with a result so appalling, for he 
immediately found himself in an atmosphere of many- 
coloured flame. The hot breath of a fiery furnace 
glowed around, dazzling his eyes, scorching his face. 

In that moment of bewilderment and terror the words 
of the runic ring flashed through his mind, and found 
expression in his gasping articulation : 

The fires of the Asas / ” 

Simultaneously with the illumination a fierce detonation 
like a powder-blast rent the air, and Godfrey, flung back- 
wards as by a giant hand, tumbled senseless to the ground. 


Ii8 


CHAPTER VII 


WITHIN THE LOFTY TOMB ” 

G odfrey opened his eyes to find himself lying 
on the grassy slope of Ormfell, staring up at 
the night-sky, with Idris kneeling beside him. 
A cool sensation was playing around his neck, and, grad- 
ually waking up to the reality of outward things, the 
surgeon discovered that his vest and collar lay open to 
the breeze, and that Idris was sprinkling his face with 
cold water-drops obtained from a pool close by. 

“ Coming-to a little, I see,” Idris observed cheerfully. 
** How do you feel ? ” 

“ Awfully queer and dizzy,” replied Godfrey. 

He lifted himself to a sitting posture, utterly unable to 
account for his present dazed condition. 

“ You’ll be all right in a few minutes. Take a pull at 
this spirit-flask : that’ll revive you. I owe my life to 
you, old fellow.” 

“ In what way?” asked Godfrey, his mind still too con- 
fused to recall the recent accident. 

“ Gaseous vapour would have claimed its victim. Your 
grandfather was quite right in asserting this to be a car- 
boniferous soil. Some of the coal-gas has issued to the 
surface. The atmosphere within the hillock was a mix- 
ture of carbon dioxide and floating fire-damp. Foolishly 
creeping about, with mouth held to the ground, I took 
in such a whiff of the one as to be quite overpowered by 
it before I had time to rise, while the other exploded as 
soon as you struck the match.” 

119 


The Viking’s Skull 

Godfrey, now quite alive to the past, gave an ejacula- 
tion of annoyance. 

“ I’m a pretty doctor not to have warned you against 
noxious vapours ! It’s a marvel we are both alive. But 
why was I not overpowered ? ” 

“ Probably because you were not holding your face to 
the earth where the gas collects, though very likely you, 
too, would have succumbed in a few moments. How- 
ever, all’s well that ends well. Your striking a light was 
a fortunate thing, for it appears to have acted like an 
electric discharge in instantly clearing the air. True, you 
were stunned, but I recovered ; whether instantly by the 
explosion, or more slowly by the purifying atmosphere, 
I cannot tell. All I know is I awoke, and realizing what 
had happened, and feeling you beside me, I lost no time 
in dragging you out into the open air. And here we 
are, none the worse for our experience, I trust. No 
doubt it was occurrences like this that caused the old 
Norsemen to believe that Odin guarded the tombs of the 
dead by darting forth flames.” 

‘‘ The fires of the Asas are real enough, after all," mut- 
tered Godfrey, still feeling like one in a dream. Hasn’t 
the sound of the explosion brought any one here ? ” 

“ It seems not,” said Idris, looking round. “ So far we 
are safe. Old Orm offers a stubborn resistance,” he con- 
tinued. “ * He being dead, yet fighteth.’ But he is 
doomed to be defeated, for I will not go until I have ex- 
amined the interior of the hillock.” 

“ You are not thinking of venturing into that death- 
trap again ? ” said Godfrey, aghast. 

“ There is no danger now : at least, not from gases. 
The explosion dissolved them, and the outer air has had 
time to penetrate within. Besides, forewarned is fore- 
armed. We know our peril : if one of us should be over- 
powered, the other must drag him out.” 

120 


“Within the Lofty Tomb'’ 


** How can you make an investigation without a light ? " 

“ We shall have light enough. Fortunately, you 
snapped the lid of the box tightly before striking your 
match — an action that effectually screened the remain- 
ing two from the flame of the fire-damp.” 

“ Two matches will not help us much.” 

There you’re wrong. We will take some of this 
brushwood inside and light a bonfire : and the sooner we 
make a beginning the better. It’s two o’clock now. In 
another hour or so day will be dawning.” 

Inwardly groaning at the perversity of his friend, God- 
frey lent a hand in collecting the materials necessary for 
the fire : and, not without some trepidation, carried them 
through the dark passage into the mortuary chamber, 
the atmosphere of which, as his nostrils assured him, had 
become considerably clarified since his previous visit. 

Fearing that the two matches when kindled might ex- 
pire before he could fire the twigs, which were damp wjth 
the afternoon’s rain, Idris drew forth a small book, a 
pocket edition of Hamlet, and proceeded to detach leaf 
after leaf, twisting them into spirals. These he handed 
to Godfrey, enjoining him to keep a flame alive by kin- 
dling one from another till the twigs should have fairly 
caught. 

Now to strike the fateful match ! ” he said. “ Pray 
heaven the Asas do not give us another pyrotechnic dis- 
play ! ” 

He cautiously struck the match. Godfrey instantly 
kindled one of his paper-spirals from the flame. 

No fireworks this time, you see,” remarked Idris, as 
all remained quiet. This is what may be called making 
light of Shakespeare,” he added, as, taking the kindled 
papers one after another from Godfrey’s hand, he applied 
them to the leaves and twigs, endeavouring to force them 
into a blaze. 

I2I 


The Viking’s Skull 

The pale, bluish glare that sprang up made the cham- 
ber faintly visible. Idris, intent on his task of ignition 
saw nothing but the brushwood before him, but Godfrey 
could not refrain from casting a timid glance around, 
even at the risk of extinguishing the lighted paper in his 
hand. 

There was, however, nothing very dreadful in the scene 
before him. He found himself standing in a chamber 
about twenty feet square, the sides of which were com- 
posed of rough-hewn blocks of masonry, glistening with 
moisture, and dotted with patches of fungous growth. 
The roof was formed by a layer of tree-trunks, necessarily 
of great size and strength in order to support the vast 
weight above. The floor seemed to be of earth, its sur- 
face glimmering here and there with tiny black pools, 
formed by the constant dropping of moisture from the 
roof. 

But the treasures deposited of old by Hilda the Alruna 
for her son, Magnus of Deira — where were they? Well 
for Idris that he had not set his heart on finding them, 
for the chamber was bare, save for one object in the cen- 
tre. This was the sarcophagus-like structure against 
which Godfrey had collided when looking for Idris’ body. 
By the flickering light he could see that this .receptacle 
was of oblong shape, the sides consisting of four upright 
stone slabs let into the earth, with a fifth one resting upon 
them like a lid. 

Idris had now succeeded in his task, and the twigs and 
branches blazing up cast over the chamber a ruddy glow 
sufficiently bright for the taking of observations. 

This is better than a lantern. I warrant the place 
hasn’t looked so cheerful for centuries,” remarked Idris, as 
he stood by the blaze and took a survey of the chamber. 

“ Cheerful at present, perhaps, but in ten minutes we 
shall be smoked out.” 


122 


Within the Lofty Tomb” 


** I think not. This fire will burn bright and clear 
presently, and will give out little smoke.” 

Taking up a lighted brand from the fire Idris moved 
forward and began his investigations with the tomb by 
making a scrutiny of its lid. 

“No inscription here, runic or otherwise. — Humph ! 
shall we supply one, Hic Jacet Ormus. — Now to re- 
move this slab ! Let us see if there are bones beneath.” 

Too eager to wait for Godfrey’s assistance he seized the 
lid with one hand, and, exerting all his strength, swung it 
off laterally. 

A cry of surprise, rather than of alarm, broke from 
him, as he caught sight of a full-sized human skeleton 
lying within. A burning fragment from the torch he 
carried dropped within the teeth of the skeleton, where, 
still continuing to glow, it lit up the skull with weird 
effect, the red flicker giving an apparent motion to the 
grinning jaws and eyeless sockets. 

“ Are these the remains of your Viking ? ” asked God- 
frey. 

“ Can there be doubt about it ? This is old Orm, or 
what is left of him,” replied Idris, holding the torch low 
over the skeleton. — “ Here reposes one who, I doubt 
not, made a brave figure in his day. And now ? ‘ None 
so poor to do him reverence.’ The people of Ormsby 
do not know even his name, and yet he was the founder 
of their town, its nomenclator, in fact. The old Greeks 
would have raised a statue and an altar to him in their 
market-place, and have worshipped him as their hero 
eponymous. And here he lies neglected and forgotten ! 

‘ Shade of the mighty ! can it be 
That this is all remains of thee ? ’ 

“ Is this wasted bone the ‘ high arm ’ spoken of on the 
runic ring ? Where be now its feats of strength ? And 

123 


The Viking’s Skull 

where is the wealth won by his ashen spear ? the riches 
that conferred upon him the epithet of Golden? the 
treasure placed within the ‘ lofty tomb ’ by his wife, 
Hilda,' the Norse prophetess? Vanished! Whither? 
Removed by whom ? and when ? Did Magnus of Deira 
really receive the runic ring despatched to him by his 
mother ? Did he come here in ancient days to remove 
his heritage, or has the treasure been taken by other, 
perhaps modern, hands ? If so, by whose ? By the 
masked man of Quilaix’s? By Captain Rochefort’s or 
by my father’s ? Have they left behind any trace of 
their visit ? ” 

His eyes roving around the chamber were attracted by 
a fabric lying at the foot of one of the walls. 

“ What have we here ? ” he said, stepping forward and 
picking it up. A piece of cloth ! Will this give us a 
clue to the men who were here last? ” 

For better inspection he carried the cloth to the light 
of the fire. When unrolled the fabric proved to be ob- 
long in shape, six feet by four, its edges very much 
frayed, and its surface so defaced by clay that it was im- 
possible at first to discover its texture, colour, or use. 

“ I see what it is," he remarked at last. “ Look at that 
triangular shred of cloth hanging from the metallic rod : 
its shape tallies with the triangular rent in this fabric. 
This has been torn from that rail : it is a part of the 
tapestry that once decked the walls of this chamber. I 
am disappointed again ; I thought to find a modern ves- 
ture, and am put off with ancient tapestry." 

He began to scrape the fabric with his penknife. 

“ I can detect some coloured threads,’’ he went on. 
‘‘ It is figured arras : but it is impossible at present to 
make out what the figures are. Here are some letters, 
too. I can detect N. and T. We must keep this. 
When cleaned it may prove to be an interesting ‘ find ’ — 
124 


“Within the Lofty Tomb” 


of a more ancient date, unless my chronology be at fault, 
than the famous Bayeux Tapestry. What puzzles me is, 
why the man who carried off the rest of the tapestry 
should leave this behind him.” 

“ Probably because it is a torn remnant.” 

“ But it would be a very simple matter to sew it to the 
main piece again. Do you notice how the rail is bent 
where the three cornered bit is ? ” 

Godfrey looked and saw that the rod was bent down- 
wards. 

“ What inference do you draw from that ? ” Idris 
asked. 

“ That somebody must have been tugging heavily at 
the tapestry to cause such a curvature.” 

“ Exactly. But why should any one wrench so vio- 
lently at the tapestry, tapestry that was evidently regarded 
as valuable, otherwise it would not have been carried off? ” 

Godfrey shrugged his shoulders at the apparent irrel- 
evancy of Idris’ remarks. 

Your question is not susceptible of an answer.” 

<< True — at present. But an investigator should take 
note of every circumstance, however trifling, although at 
the time he may fail to discern its true significance.” 

“ But seeing that the tapestry may have been carried 
off centuries ago, it is difficult to discover the present ap- 
plication of your remark.” 

** On the other hand it may have been carried off only 
recently : it is these recent traces that I wish to find. 
Somehow, this bent rod attracts me. Ah ! ” 

Whilst speaking thus he suddenly recalled an incident 
that had occurred during his previous exploration in the 
dark. 

Godfrey, your divining rod. I am half-a-believer in 
its powers. At any rate I am going to try an experi- 
ment.” 


125 


The Viking's Skull 

Taking the hazel stick he walked to that part of the 
wall where the shred of tapestry hung. 

“ Either I am dreaming/’ he said, “ or a singular experi- 
ence befell me at this spot.” 

Standing in the same position as before he extended 
the stick horizontally, explaining to Godfrey the reason 
for his act. 

But Solomon’s saying, The thing that hath been, it is 
that which shall be,” was not verified on the present oc- 
casion. Though Idris waited patiently for several min- 
utes the rod manifested none of the downward tendency 
that it had previously shown. 

Godfrey himself took the stick and tried the experi- 
ment, but with no better result. He expressed his 
opinion that Idris must have been the victim of an illu- 
sion : but to this Idris would not assent. 

“ The rod does not turn now, that’s clear. But that it 
did turn I am confident. It was no fancy of mine.” 

Let us dig,” said Godfrey, “ and see whether there is 
anything beneath the soil that could have caused it.” 

With these words he took up the spade and began 
digging. Idris followed his example, wielding the pick- 
axe, but found, after a few strbkes, that some hard sub- 
stance prevented the point of the implement from 
penetrating to a greater depth than three or four inches. 

This earth is mere superficial deposit, percolations 
from the roof,” said Idris. “ There is a stone flooring 
beneath.” 

In a few moments they had cleared away the terrene 
deposit, discovering nothing however, except a block of 
smooth masonry, at which Idris dealt a few strokes by 
way of experiment. 

Humph ! seems solid enough. The dull sound given 
forth is hardly suggestive of a cavity. What made the 
rod curve, I wonder ? ” 


126 


“Within the Lofty Tomb” 


Finding no answer to this question, he turned reluc- 
tantly away, and began to explore other parts of the 
chamber. He made a careful examination of its flooring, 
allowing no part of it to escape him. With the spade he 
swept aside the black water from the tiny hollows, and 
with the pickaxe he probed the ground at various points, 
discovering everywhere stone pavement beneath the su- 
perficial covering of earth. 

The object that he was hoping to find — a match-box, 
or a button bearing the maker’s name ; the dated sheet 
of a newspaper ; a scrap of handwriting : a handkerchief, 
marked with the owner’s initials : or some article of like 
character — existed only in his fancy. A thorough 
search on the part of the two friends failed to bring any- 
thing to light, either on the surface of the floor, or em- 
bedded within the clay. 

There was nothing to indicate the date at which the 
tumulus had been last entered : whether ten, twenty, or 
a hundred years before. For all they could tell to the 
contrary, many centuries might have passed since its 
interior had been trodden by human footsteps. 

Relinquishing at last his fruitless labours Idris seated 
himself on the edge of the Viking’s tomb with disap- 
pointment written on his features. 

I have so long clung to the hope that this place 
would aflbrd a clue to the finding of my father, that I 
cannot give up the notion even now, when its futility 
seems most apparent. You may think me fanciful, God- 
frey, but something seems to whisper that there are traces 
of him here, if I did but know where to look for them. 
And yet, I suppose, we have done all that it is possible 
to do ? ” 

He rose again from his seat and scrutinized the 
four walls of the chamber, sounding them with the 
pickaxe. 


127 


The Viking’s Skull 

“ There does not appear to be any cell or passage be- 
hind these,” he muttered. 

He turned his eyes upwards, and took a survey of the 
black tree- trunks forming the roof of the chamber : and 
finished his investigations by probing the dust of the 
Viking’s tomb with the end of the walking-stick, but 
made no further discovery. 

“ So end my hopes of finding my father,” he muttered 
sadly. “ My labour has been expended on a vain quest. 
Years of search throughout Europe: years of study over 
runic letters, end in — a dead man’s bones ! — How this 
old fellow grins ! One would think he enjoys my dis- 
comfiture. I shall take his skull back with me.” 

Why, in heaven’s name ? ” 

“ A whim of mine, nothing more. I have taken a 
fancy for the skull, and the skull I will have. So old 
Orm,” he continued, stooping down and detaching the 
grisly head-piece from the vertebral column, prepare to 
face the light of day after a sleep of centuries in dark- 
ness.” 

“ Put it back again,” said Godfrey. “ What good can 
it do you ? You can’t possibly put it to any use.” 

“ The skull of a brave Viking is a trophy well worth 
preserving, a noble ornament for my sideboard. And if 
you talk of use, there are several uses to which I can put 
it. I may set it with silver, and convert it into a drink- 
ing-cup, like that used by Byron. Or I may turn it into 
a pretty lamp to write tragedy by, after the fashion of the 
poet Young. Or, imitating the old Egyptians, I may use 
it as a table-decoration to remind me of death, and of the 
vanity of all things human. The skull will be a souvenir 
of our expedition, a memento of an experience unique, at 
least, in my life. — So hurrah!” he cried, holding the 
trophy aloft, Hurrah for the Viking’s Skull! ” 
****** 


128 


“Within the Lofty Tomb’’ 


Day was dawning when Idris and Godfrey reached 
home, after concealing, so far as lay in their power, the 
traces of their night’s work. Beatrice, who had been 
sitting up anxiously awaiting their return, gave a little 
scream when she beheld their blackened faces. 

“ Heavens ! what has happened ? ” she cried. 

Over the repast that she had kept in readiness for them 
Idris gave an account of the expedition, finishing his 
story by producing the relics he had brought away with 
him, namely, the Viking’s skull and the fragment of 
tapestry. 

“ Let us have some warm water, Trixie,” said Godfrey. 
We will try to clean this tapestry.” 

A bowl of warm water was soon procured, Godfrey 
diluting it with a powder brought by him from his sur- 
gery. 

“ A chemical preparation of my own,” he explained, 
warranted to take out stains without injuring the cloth.” 

Under Beatrice’s manipulation the relic gradually dis- 
closed itself as a piece of brownish-coloured linen, divided 
by a vertical line of black thread into two sections of un- 
equal length. Each section consisted of a picture woven 
in woollen threads on the linen background, and each was 
fragmentary in character, the beginning of the one and 
the end of the other being torn away. 

The left section represented a battle-field : spears were 
hurtling in air : two warriors were lying prostrate, and a 
third, a yellow-haired hero, his bare arms flung aloft, was 
in the act of falling backwards, his breast pierced by an 
arrow. These figures, drawn to a scale of about half the 
human size, were in a good state of preservation. The 
colours of the garments had scarcely faded : the golden 
filaments composing the shields still retained their bright- 
ness : and the swords, woven from silver threads, glinted 
in the rising sunlight, as Beatrice moved the fabric to and 
9 129 


The Viking’s Skull 

fro. To this section was attached the subscription : — 
“ Hic Ormum Aureum Occidunt.’' 

“ What do these words mean ? ” Beatrice asked. 

** * Here they kill Orm the Golden/ ” Idris replied. 

« Orm the Golden/’ Godfrey repeated. “ You are 
right, then, Idris, in your theory as to that tumulus be- 
ing the tomb of the warrior spoken of on the runic ring. 
I confess that till this moment I have had my doubts on 
the point, but this piece of tapestry is decisive.” 

In the other section of the cloth the same warrior, still 
pierced by the arrow, was represented as lying prone 
upon the earth : two figures, those of a woman and of a 
boy, were bending over him. That it was night-time was 
shown by the torches they carried. The woman had evi- 
dently come to bear off the body of the dead chief. The 
words, “ Hilda Invenit ” — were clearly discernible ; the 
rest of the inscription was wanting. 

“ ‘ Hilda finds ' — Orm, I suppose the next word would 
be, if we had the inscription in full,” said Idris. “ Hilda 
— the lady of the runic ring, you will remember. This 
other figure is perhaps intended for her son Magnus : if 
so, it is clear that he was a lad at the time of his father’s 
death, which may account for his mother’s act in hiding 
the treasure in Ormfell. There it was to remain till her 
son should be of age to defend his heritage. The roll of 
tapestry suspended round the tomb was evidently, when 
entire, a complete record in needlework of the life of Orm 
the Viking. It must have formed an interesting relic of 
Norse times. A pity we haven’t the whole of it.” 

“ And so this is Hilda the Alruna ! ” mused Beatrice, 
contemplating the figure on the tapestry. ** How cur- 
iously we are linked with the past ! To think that the 
expedition in which you nearly lost your lives is the re- 
sult of a sentence engraved on a Norse altar-ring a thou- 
sand years ago by the lady portrayed on this piece of 

130 


“Within the Lofty Tomb” 


needlework ! She had dark hair, if this be her * counter- 
feit presentment/ And to think, too, that we possess the 
very skull of the yellow-haired Viking pictured here ! It 
sounds too romantic to be true. Where are you going to 
put your grisly trophy, Mr. Breakspear ? ” 

** The head of the staircase is the orthodox place.” 

‘‘ The orthodox place ? ” repeated Beatrice, puzzled by 
the expression. 

** Some ancient houses keep a skull as part of the fur- 
nishings,” Idris explained. It is supposed to bring good 
luck, and the head of the staircase is its usual place, any 
removal of it being fraught with danger to the house. 
Of course this is foolery, but ” 

“ But still we may as well be in the fashion,” smiled 
Beatrice, “ and so I’ll put it where you say.” 

The Viking’s skull was therefore taken by her to the 
embrasure of the window that looked down the staircase, 
after which act Beatrice went off for a brief spell of sleep, 
this being the first time she had ever gone to bed at sun- 
rising. 

Godfrey, preparing to follow her example, lingered for 
a moment, attracted by the appearance of the water in 
which the tapestry had been cleansed. 

“ How red this water is ! ” he murmured. “ To what 
is the colour due ? ” 

« Probably to the reddish coloured clay with which the 
cloth was stained,” replied Idris. 

“ It may be so,” said the physician, slowly and thought- 
fully, “ but if I remember rightly, the clay in that part 
of the chamber where the tapestry lay was not red at all. 
The appearance of this water is certainly curious. One 
might almost take it for blood ! ” 


CHAPTER VIII 


LORELIE RIVIERE 

T he expedition to Ormfell had been a failure 
from Idris’ point of view. Deaf to the voice 
of reason he had clung to the idea that the 
Viking’s tomb held a clue that would aid him in finding 
his father. Having now received clear proof of the 
fallacy of that hope Idris, after a few hours’ sleep, wan- 
dered forth by the seashore to consider what his next 
step should be. 

It was an afternoon of brilliant sunshine. The tide 
was out, but without making any inquiries as to the time 
of its return, he strolled leisurely onward, wrapped in 
meditation. 

Casually raising his eyes from the ribbed sea-sand he 
caught sight of a structure, locally known as “ The Stairs 
of David.” This was an arrangement of three ladders, 
suspended one above another on the face of the cliff, 
which at this point rose vertically to a height of more 
than a hundred feet. Iron hooks kept these ladders in 
position. The structure, a very frail one, had been put 
up originally to enable crab-fishers to reach this part of 
the beach with more expedition. 

Still deep in thought Idris passed on, and had left the 
ladder about a mile in his rear, when he suddenly paused 
and looked in the direction of the murmuring sound — 
the sound he had heard for some time, but to which he 
had given no heed. 

The tide was coming in, and coming in so quickly, that 
unless he hastened back at once he ran the risk of being 

132 


Lorelie Riviere 


drowned : for steep cliffs rose above him, and the open 
beach was at least five miles away. 

Just on the point of setting off at a run he was checked 
by the recollection of “ The Stairs of David.” It would 
be easy to scale the cliff by means of this structure. 

He moved onward at a leisurely pace, and then stopped 
abruptly. What was that object rising and falling on the 
surface of the water a few yards in rear of the advancing 
line of foam ? Let “ The Stairs of David ” be far off or 
close by, he must satisfy his curiosity before mounting 
them. 

He ran to the edge of the breakers, and, with a thrill 
of surprise, discovered that the undulating object was a 
woman’s hat. 

How came it there ? He had not, so far as he could 
remember, encountered anybody in his walk along the 
shore. He looked over the dancing waves, but neither 
boat nor vessel was visible : he looked up and down the 
beach : he looked along the craggy summit of the cliffs 
that rose in frowning grandeur above him, but could see 
neither man nor woman. He stood, a solitary figure, on 
a shore that stretched away north and south for many 
miles. 

Regardless of the advancing tide he remained motion- 
less, fascinated by the sight of the hat, his uneasiness 
deepening each moment. There was something familiar 
in the grey felt with its once graceful feather bedrenched 
with the salt spray. 

He advanced into the shallow water and lifted the hat 
for a closer survey. It was rarely that Idris took note 
of a woman’s attire, but he could recall every detail of 
the dress worn by Mademoiselle Riviere on the day he 
saw her in the Ravengar Chantry, and he knew that this 
hat was hers. 

His heart, weighted by a terrible idea, sank within him 

133 


The Viking's Skull 

like lead. Half expecting to see a dead form come float- 
ing past he glanced again over the surface of the rippling 
tide. 

He now recollected, what he had hitherto forgotten, 
that there were dangerous quicksands along this part of 
the coast. Must he believe that Mademoiselle Riviere 
had become engulfed, and that the tide was now foaming 
jubilantly over her head ? 

Once more he looked along the shore, and, as he 
looked, his pulses thrilled with a sudden and delicious 
relief ; for at the sandy base of a distant cliff he caught 
sight of a figure lying prone. 

Dropping the hat he hurried over the intervening 
space, and in a moment more was kneeling beside the 
form of Lorelie Riviere. Beneath her lay the third and 
lowest of the three ladders that formed the so-called 
“ Stairs of David.” She had been either ascending or 
descending the frail structure, and it had given way. 
The ladder, worm-eaten with age, had snapped into three 
portions on touching the sands, and the shock of its fall 
had deprived her of consciousness. 

Her eyelids were closed. Silent and motionless she 
lay, her breathing so faint as scarce to seem breathing at 
all, her delicate fingers still clinging to a rung of the 
fallen ladder. 

“ Thank heaven, she is alive ! ” murmured Idris, a great 
dread rolling from his heart. 

He gently detached her fingers from the rung of the 
ladder, and, tenderly raising her, rested her head upon 
his knee, turning her face towards the breeze. As he 
did so, the murmuring sound, that had never once ceased, 
seemed to swell louder, and his heart almost leaped into 
his mouth when he noticed how rapidly the tide was ad- 
vancing. 

That terrible tide ! 


134 


Lorelie Riviere 


Were it not for the rush of waters swirling forward he 
might have thought that some good fairy was favouring 
his heart’s dearest wish. The loveliest maiden whom he 
had ever seen was resting within his arms, dependent 
upon him for safety. But what safety could he give ? 
Their position seemed hopeless. The last rung of the 
middle ladder hung forty feet or more above his head. 
The lowest ladder lay on the sands in three portions, and 
he realized at a glance the impossibility of refixing them 
in their original position. 

“ No boat in sight ! Impossible to scale the cliffs ! 
Too far to swim with her to Ormsby ! What is to be 
our fate ? ” he muttered. 

Idris had often looked death in the face, but never in 
circumstances so hard as these. Was he to die holding 
this fair maiden in his arms, helplessly witnessing her 
death-gasps ? And the voice of the sea, swelling ever 
higher and higher, seemed to give an answering cry of 
Yes, yes ! ” 

The breeze blowing full upon her face had a reviving 
effect upon her. Slowly she opened her eyes, and a look 
of innocent wonder came over her face when she met 
Idris’ earnest gaze bent upon her. 

“ You fell from the ladder, you remember,” he said, 
answering the question in her eyes. “ Are you hurt ? 
Have you broken any bones ? ” 

« I — I think not,” was the reply. 

“ Shall I help you to stand ? ” 

She assented. But no sooner was she raised to her 
feet than throbs of pain began to shoot through her left 
ankle, and she leaned for support against the cliff, resting 
her right foot only upon the sand. 

“ My ankle pains me. I don't think I can walk.” 

While thus speaking she chanced to look upward at 
the ladder hanging far above her head, and then, lower- 

135 


The Viking’s Skull 

ing her eyes to the flowing sea, she suddenly took in the 
full peril of their position. 

“ The tide ! the tide ! ” she murmured, clasping her 
hands. We are lost.” 

« We certainly mustn’t remain here. And if you can- 
not walk I must carry you.” 

Idris’ cheerful and brisk air did not deceive her. 
Glancing from left to right she saw the futility of his pro- 
posal as well as he saw it himself. 

The contour of the shore formed a semicircular bay 
many miles in length, and its sands were lined by a wall 
of lofty perpendicular cliffs without a single gap to break 
their continuity. Idris and his companion were standing 
somewhere near the centre of this curve. The tide, ex- 
tending in a straight line across the bay, had now closed 
in upon the extreme points of the arc-like sweep, and 
was still advancing, covering the sand and reducing at 
each moment the extent of their standing room. Before 
Idris could have carried her half-a-mile the sea would be 
breaking many feet deep upon the base of the cliffs. 

** You cannot save me,” said Mademoiselle Riviere, a 
sudden calmness coming over her. “ It is impossible. 
You must leave me and try to save yourself.” 

The gentle maiden, whom a harsh word melts to tears, 
will often face death with fortitude, the great crisis evok- 
ing all the latent heroism of her nature. So it was now, 
and Idris, looking into the depth of Mademoiselle 
Riviere’s steadfast eyes, caught a glimpse of how those 
Christian women may have looked who faced martyrdom 
in the pagan days of old. Strange that a maiden, seem- 
ingly so good and brave, should have excited the aversion 
of Beatrice ! 

“ If you die, I die with you,” said Idris. “ But I have 
no intention of letting either you or myself die. There 
is a way of escape open to us.” 


Lorelie Riviere 


For, with a sudden thrill of joy, he remembered that, 
at a point a few hundred yards to the north of their pres- 
ent position, he had passed a great pile of rocks, fallen 
crags detached from the sides of the overhanging preci- 
pice. The spot was invisible from where he now stood, 
being hidden behind a projecting buttress of the cliff, but 
he judged that the summit of this rocky mass was cer- 
tainly above high-water mark. There he and Mademoi- 
selle Riviere must remain till the ebb of the tide, unless 
they should be so fortunate as to attract the notice of 
some passing boat. 

Making known his intention, Idris added, “ Pardon 
me ; this is no time for ceremony.” 

He lifted her in his arms, and she, with a sudden and 
natural revulsion in favour of life, submitted to his will, 
placing her arms around his neck to steady her person. 

The humming sea, as if bent on securing its victims, 
came foaming with threatening rapidity over the bare 
stretch of sand, throwing forward long streamlets, that, 
like eager creatures in a race, seemed striving with each 
other to be first at the foot of the cliff. 

Though Lorelie Riviere was but a light weight Idris’ 
progress was necessarily slow. At each step his foot 
sank deeper into the rapidly-moistening sand, and ere 
long the water itself was swirling round his ankles, and 
flinging its sparkling spray against the base of the preci- 
pice. And yet in all his life he had never experienced 
the pure joy that filled him at that moment. The woman 
whom he most loved was reclining within his arms, and 
clasped so closely to him, that he could feel her breast 
swelling against his own, and her hair touching his cheek. 
There was a subtle charm in the situation : what wonder, 
then, that he desired to prolong it, and that he moved at 
a slower pace as he drew near the pile of fallen crags ? 

The desired haven was gained at last, and Mademoiselle 

137 


The Viking’s Skull 

Riviere, partly by her own efforts and partly with the 
help of Idris, clambered up the face of the slippery and 
weed-grown rocks, the top of which formed an irregular, 
hummocky platform, a few yards in extent. 

“ Saved ! ” she murmured, sinking down and scarcely 
able to repress a tendency to cry. “ But will not the tide 
cover this ledge ? ” 

“No. See here!” replied Idris, plucking a weed be- 
side her. “ Samphire ! It never grows below salt water. 
We are quite safe.” 

Mademoiselle Riviere clasped her hands : her lips 
moved, and Idris knew that she was breathing a silent 
prayer. 

“ You have saved my life,” she said, looking up at him 
with gratitude shining from her eyes. “ How can I 
thank you ? ” 

Though he had seen Mademoiselle Riviere but once, 
and then for a moment only : though this was his first 
time of conversing with her, Idris intuitively felt that she 
was the one woman in the world for him: and that 
though happiness might be possible apart from her, such 
happiness would be but the shadow of that derivable 
from her undivided love. 

Fortune was certainly favouring him. He would have 
given half his wealth to any one who could have brought 
about such a situation as the present, and lo ! the event 
had happened naturally, of itself, and without any pre- 
meditation on his part. It was wonderful ! Many hours 
might pass ere he and Mademoiselle Riviere could quit 
the spot where they now were. He determined to make 
good use of this golden opportunity. He would exert 
all his powers to gain a place, if not in her affection, at 
least in her friendship, so that her feeling on parting 
from him should contain something of regret. 

“ How can I thank you ? ” she repeated. 

138 


Lorelie Riviere 

** By not thanking me. How did the accident 
happen ? ” 

My hat was the cause of it all. I was standing on 
the edge of the cliff when the wind carried it off to the 
sands below. Not wishing to return home bare-headed, 
I clambered down * The Stairs of David ’ after it. The 
ladder gave way, and I fell. A sudden stop, and I re- 
member no more.” 

“ It was well the ground at the foot of the cliff was 
soft sand,” said Idris. 

“ It was well, as you say,” replied Mademoiselle Riviere 
with a shiver. “ I shall never forget the sensation of 
falling through the air.” 

“ Does your ankle still pain you ? ” Idris asked, ob- 
serving that she shrank from placing her left foot on the 
ground. 

« A little,” she smiled. 

“ You are sure it is not dislocated — broken?” 

O no ; it is merely a sprain. How long shall we 
have to remain here ? ” she added. 

This was a question that Idris himself had been con- 
sidering. It appeared that Mademoiselle Riviere, on 
setting out for her walk, had not told any one of the di- 
rection she had intended to take : Idris had been similarly 
negligent. Hence it was very unlikely that men from 
Ormsby would come cruising along the shore in boats to 
search for them. To scale the precipice was out of the 
question. To shout for aid would be of little avail, for 
as the cliff above them was lofty, and the highroad ran 
a considerable distance from its edge, there was little 
probability that their voices would be heard. Their po- 
sition rendered it impossible to make any signals that 
would be visible at Ormsby, that town being situated 
just behind the cliff that formed one extremity of the bay. 

‘‘ I fear,” said Idris, after considering all these things, 

139 


The Viking’s Skull 

“ that our captivity is dependent upon the good graces 
of the tide.” 

“ And the tide will be several hours in turning,” said 
Mademoiselle Riviere. “ Well, I suppose I must play 
the philosopher, and accept the situation. It is certainly 
better to be here than under the waves.” 

If her beauty charmed Idris, her manner, pleasant and 
without affectation, charmed him still more. 

So interested had he been in her companionship that 
he had hitherto failed to notice that the face of the over- 
hanging cliff was pierced by a deep cavern, the mouth 
of which was on a level with the top of their rocky 
platform. 

What is this ? ” he said, stepping forward to take a 
closer view. “ A cave, as I live. A coast-guard’s place 
for watching smugglers, I suppose.” 

“ That must be the ‘ Hermit’s Cave,' ” said Mademoiselle 
Riviere, turning her eyes upon it, “ so named from an 
ancient recluse who is said to have made it his home. I 
am told that the chair in which he sat is still to be seen, 
cut out of the solid rock.” 

Excellent! You must occupy that seat, mademoi- 
selle. It will be more pleasant there than sitting out 
here upon this slippery windy rock.” 

She rose, glad of the proposed change, for the wind 
was playing confusion with her hair. Observing her 
wince, as her left foot touched the ground, Idris said, 
with a smile : — 

“ You had better let me carry you.” 

Lorelie coloured, neither assenting nor opposing. 
Since Idris had carried her once it would be prudery to 
resist now, and so, knowing that she must either accept 
his aid or else crawl to the spot upon her hands and 
knees, she entrusted herself to his arms, and in this way 
gained the entrance of the cave, which was of consider- 
140 


Lorelie Riviere 


able extent, and strewn with logs, planks, and odd pieces 
of timber. 

** Where does all this wood come from ? she asked. 

*• Wreckage-timber, probably ; doubtless placed here 
by the coast-guard to be used as firing in cold weather. 
See ! here is the hermit’s seat you spoke of,” said Idris, 
indicating a piece of rock jutting from the wall of the 
cave near its entrance. It had been hollowed out by art 
into the rude resemblance of an armchair, and within 
this recess Idris placed his companion. 

** I hope you dined well before setting out,” he said, 
“ for our grotto offers nothing in the shape of commis- 
sariat.” 

“ I am somewhat thirsty,” replied Lorelie, as she turned 
her eyes upon a tiny spring of water, which, issuing from 
a fissure in the wall of the cave, flowed silently down into 
a depression hollowed out in the floor, just beside the 
hermit’s seat; then, overflowing from the basin into a 
groove of its own making, the water became lost in an 
orifice a few feet distant. 

Here is a remedy for thirst,” said Idris. “ The daily 
drink of our hermit. ‘ The waters of Siloah that go 
softly,’ was perhaps his name for it. The eremite’s 
crockeryware having perished, how do you propose to 
drink ? ” 

** With Nature’s cup,” smiled Lorelie, curving her 
hands into the shape of a bowl. 

Mindful of her ankle she slid cautiously upon her knees 
and bent, a charming picture, over the pool. 

“ How clear and still,” she murmured. “ Its surface is 
like a mirror.” 

“ Then do not gaze too long upon it, lest you meet the 
fate of Narcissus.” 

Narcissus ? ” she repeated, looking up at him with in- 
quiring eyes. 

141 


The Viking’s Skull 

“ He died from the reflection of his own loveliness." 

Idris regretted his words almost in the very moment 
of their utterance, for he could tell by the sudden cloud- 
ing of her face that she was averse to the language of 
gallantry. Clearly she was not a woman to be won by 
empty compliment, and he resolved to steer clear of such 
a quicksand. He was glad to observe that when she had 
resumed her seat the pleasant smile was again on her lip. 

Attentive to every variation in her countenance he 
began to discern two moods in Lorelie Riviere : the one 
vivacious and sprightly, and this seemed to be her original 
disposition : the other, pensive and sad, the result, so he 
judged, of some secret sorrow. 

He longed to know more of this fair lady, slighted by 
Beatrice ; the lady who had once lived at Nantes in the 
very house that fronted the scene of the murder of 
Duchesne, that murder for which his father had been 
condemned : the lady who was erecting in St. Oswald's 
Churchyard a marble cross inscribed with an epitaph that 
seemed almost applicable to his father’s case : the lady 
whose playing upon the organ had wrought so weird an 
effect upon his mind. 

All these things contributed to invest Lorelie Riviere 
with a charming air of mystery, but Idris recognized that 
the time was not yet ripe to press for confidences. 

Dragging a few logs forward he disposed them so as to 
form a seat for himself near the entrance of the cavern, 
remarking as he did so : — 

“ We must not forget to look out for passing boats.” 

The afternoon sun was filling the air with a dusky 
golden glow. The waves dancing and sparkling below 
the mouth of the cave flashed emerald and sapphire hues 
upon its roof, irradiating the place with an ever-changing 
light. 

To Idris the situation was a charming tableau, a living 
142 


Lorelie Riviere 


idyll, and one that was rendered all the more pleasant by 
contrast with their recent perilous position. Madem- 
oiselle Riviere trembled as she reflected on what might 
have happened but for the chance passing of this stranger. 
Strange that until this moment it had not occurred to her 
to ask his name ! 

“ You know my name,” she said, “ but I have yet to 
learn yours.” 

“ My name is Breakspear,” he replied, withholding his 
true patronymic; and feeling as he spoke a sense of 
shame of having to deceive her even in so small a matter ; 
“ Idris Breakspear.” 

“ Idris ! ” she said, with a sudden start, as if the name 
had touched some chord in her memory. “ Idris ! It is 
a somewhat uncommon name.” 

“We will say, then, that its rarity is a point in its 
favour,” smiled Idris, who had observed her start, and 
wondered at the cause. 

“ Have we not met before, Mr. Breakspear?” 

“ I saw you two days ago in the Ravengar Chantry,” 
he replied. He did not say, as he might truthfully have 
said, that during these two days he had been thinking of 
little else but that brief meeting. “ Miss Ravengar and 
I,” he continued, “ had been listening to your recital on 
the organ. I must congratulate you on your skill as a 
musician. Mademoiselle Riviere. May I ask the name 
of the last chant you played? Was it taken from some 
oratorio, or was it your own improvisation ? ” 

“ The last chant ? ” repeated Lorelie, with a pensive air. 
“ Let me think ? What was it ? Did it run like this ? ” 

And in a sweet silvery tone she trilled off a bar which 
Idris immediately recognized as a part of the refrain that 
had been played by her. 

“ That is the ‘ Ravengar Funeral March,’ ” explained 
Lorelie. “ Its origin goes far back into the depths of the 

143 


The Viking’s Skull 

dark ages, tradition affirming that it is the composition 
of an ancient scald, and was first chanted at the burial 
of the old Norse chieftain who founded the Ravengar 
family. It has been the custom to play it at the funeral 
of every Ravengar, though he would be a bold person 
who should say that the tune has not undergone varia- 
tions in its descent to our times. The unknown minstrel 
with whom it originated was a genius, a mediaeval Mozart. 
Could you not fancy that you heard the tread of numer- 
ous feet in procession, the clang of shield and spear, the 
groans of warriors, the plaintive weeping of women ? ” 

“ It certainly was a weird requiem ; it moved me as no 
other piece of music ever has." 

And then, absorbed in a new idea, Idris forgot for the 
moment the presence of even Lorelie Riviere. 

“ What are these Ravengars to me," he thought, “ or 
am I to them, that their Funeral Chant should produce 
in me such clairvoyant sensations ? " 

This question was succeeded by another. How had 
Mademoiselle Riviere become familiar with this requiem ? 
As if in answer to his thoughts Lorelie remarked : — 

I heard Viscount Walden play it once in Venice: he 
gave it as a specimen of the weird and uncanny in music. 
It so took my fancy that I did not rest till I had obtained 
a copy of it." 

It was somewhat disquieting to 'learn that she had met 
Lord Walden abroad, and that she was on terms of suffi- 
cient friendship to beg from him a copy of music. Had 
this friendship changed into something deeper ? Was he 
to regard Lord Walden in the light of a rival ? Had 
Mademoiselle Riviere come to Ormsby in order to be 
near the viscount? In saving her from being over- 
whelmed by the tide Idris had doubtless gained a high 
place in her favour, but then gratitude is not love, and 
Ravenhall and a coronet were powerful attractions. 

144 


Lorelie Riviere 


** Do you often play at St. Oswald’s Church ? ” he 
asked, after an interval of silence. 

“ Yes. I find a charm in its * dim religious light.’ ” 

** And the quietude of the place,” said Idris, “ is also 
favourable to the study of mediaeval historians — Paulus 
DiaconuSf for example.” 

“ Ah ! Mr. Breakspear,” she said, “ so it was you who 
carried off my book from the organ-loft. I guessed as 
much when I went back, and found it gone. You must 
not forget to return it, for I value it highly. Now, con- 
fess, that you have wondered why I, a woman, should 
take to poring over that old Lombard historian ? ” 

“ Curiosity is not confined to the sex with whom it is 
supposed to have originated,” smiled Idris, << and I am 
willing to admit, mademoiselle, that I have been puzzled. 
The book does not belong to the style of literature us- 
ually patronized by ladies.” 

“ Merci! I regard that last remark as a compliment. 
Well, I will explain the mystery, if you will promise to 
keep the matter a secret.” And upon Idris giving his 
assurance, she continued : “ I am trying to write a poet- 

ical play, a tragedy relating to the times of the Italo- 
Lombard kings, and as I do not wish to commit anach- 
ronisms, it behoves me to study the historical authorities 
in the original.” 

“ I understand,” answered Idris, his opinion of Lorelie 
rising higher than ever : besides being a musician and a 
Latin scholar, she was also a poetess ! And what are 
you going to call your play ? ” 

“‘The Fatal Skull,’” she replied. “You look sur- 
prised, Mr. Breakspear. Is there already a play of that 
name ? ” 

“ I have never heard of it.” 

“ Because one must not borrow another author’s title, 
is it not so ? ” 


lO 


145 


The Viking’s Skull 

“ The Fatal Skull ! ” Idris could not but think it a 
curious coincidence that Lorelie’s drama should bear such 
a title, when he himself at this time was much interested 
in a skull, to wit, that of Orm the Viking. 

“ Why so weird a title, mademoiselle ? ” 

Because it is appropriate to the leading incident in the 
piece : for the play turns on the famous historic banquet 
at which the Lombard Queen Rosamond was forced by 
her husband to drink from her father’s skull. So now 
you understand, Mr. Breakspear,” she went on, “ that 
wherever the words ‘ Fatal Skull,’ or the initials < F. S.,* 
occur in the margin of my book, they mean that there is 
something in the passage thus marked capable of being 
worked into my drama.” 

“ And when do you intend to publish it ? ” 

Not yet : perhaps never. I write, not for fame, but 
for my own pleasure.” 

“ Do not say that, mademoiselle. If one has noble 
thoughts the world will be the better for hearing them. 
I hope, therefore, to see the day when your work will be 
published : nay, more, I hope to see it acted.” 

** It is kind of you to say so,” she murmured. The 
light of pleasure in her eyes, and the colour mantling her 
cheek, so enhanced her beauty that it was with difficulty 
the impulsive Idris could repress the temptation of telling; 
her of his love. But, even as he watched, the look of 
pleasure faded from her face, and there succeeded the 
melancholy air that he had previously noticed, an air that 
said almost as plainly as words, ** I am forgetting myself : 
it is not for me to be glad.” 

Yet the smile returned to her lip when Idris ventured 
upon a suggestion. 

“ I see neither boat nor vessel within hail,” he remarked, 
glancing over the sea. ‘‘We have several hours yet be- 
fore us. Now in the Christmas tales, you know, when 
146 


Lorelie Riviere 


the stage-coach passengers are snowed up at the country- 
inn, or the sea-voyagers wrecked on the lonely isle, they 
always beguile the time by story-telling. It’s the or- 
thodox thing to do. Suppose we imitate them.” 

** A good idea ! and,” added Lorelie archly, ** it be- 
comes the mover of the proposition to take the initia- 
tive.” 

“ Caught in the net I was preparing for another ! ” 
smiled Idris. “ I was hoping to hear you recite some 
portions of your play. But that will come later. Well, 
mademoiselle, what shall my story be ? ” 

You said a while ago that you have led a somewhat 
adventurous life, and that you once took part in a battle. 
I call for some of your adventures.” 

“ You flatter my vanity. A man's self is an insidious 
theme. The Apologia pro mea vita is rarely to be trusted, 
the author being naturally prone to magnify his virtues, 
and minimize his faults. Always receive the autobiog- 
raphy cum grano salisl’ 

“ Very well,” replied Lorelie, with a smile irresistible in 
its witchery. ** Begin your story, and I will supply the 
granum salis as you proceed.” 

Vain was it for Idris to protest. She was not to be 
deterred from her purpose of hearing something of his 
personal history ; and, accordingly, after due reflection, 
he proceeded to relate some of his experiences in the 
Graeco-Turkish War of ’97, in which he had taken a part, 
in common with some other Englishmen of adventurous 
spirit. 

Idris was master of a certain natural eloquence, an elo- 
quence very effective in the case of an imaginative maiden. 
At any rate Lorelie seemed to take a deep interest in his 
words. Never before had he seen so attentive a listener. 
Her face, like water lit by the changing rays of the sun, 
reflected all the varying expressions on his own counte- 

147 


The Viking’s Skull 

nance, as he passed from grave to gay, from scene to 
scene. 

A significant incident occurred during the telling of 
these reminiscences. 

He was relating that on one occasion he had been en- 
trusted by a Greek commander with the task of convey- 
ing a secret dispatch to a village beyond the enemy’s 
lines. The ordinary route to this place ran through a 
mountain-pass, which at that time was carefully guarded 
by Bashi-Bazouks. Idris, therefore, determined to scale 
the face of an almost perpendicular cliff, and passing, as 
it were, above the heads of the watchers, come out in 
their rear. When he was three-fourths of the way up the 
cliff his heart almost leaped into his mouth as he caught a 
glimpse of a Bashi-Bazouk, dagger in hand, waiting for 
him at the top. The shades of twilight were falling : to 
descend was impossible : to go upward was to meet cer- 
tain death : yet upward he continued to pull himself, 
little by little, hoping that by some good fortune he 
might be able to outwit the armed watcher. In graphic 
language he painted his sensations as none could, save 
those only who have been in a position. 

At this point Lorelie’s interest became intense, even 
painful. So vivid was her realization of the scene that 
she seemed at that very moment to see Idris before her, 
clinging feebly to the edge of the cliff in the dusky gloom, 
with the savage enemy above him dealing the death- 
stroke. She leaned forward in her seat with parted lips : 
then, quite unconsciously, and all-forgetful of her sprained 
ankle, she half rose with her arm extended as if to ward 
off the coming blow. 

“ O, but you are here!' she murmured, realizing her 
mistake. “ How absurd of me ! ” and, with a heightened 
colour, she sank back in confusion. 

“ Yes, I am here,” replied Idris, his heart leaping with 
148 


Lorelie Riviere 


delight at this proof of her interest in his welfare. 
“ Near the summit of the cliff was a narrow shelf of 
rock : on this ledge I lay down and waited, with my re- 
volver pointing to the night sky. I knew that my gen- 
tleman would peep over again presently to mark my 
progress. He did. What the kites left of him you’ll 
find at the foot of the cliff.” 

If pleasure at the death of a fellow-mortal be an anti- 
Christian feeling, it must be confessed that Lorelie 
Riviere had little of the Christian in her at that moment. 

Now that he had once entered upon his personal his- 
tory, she would not let him quit it, betraying such interest 
that Idris almost wondered whether she had a secret 
motive in wishing to hear his biography. 

The most romantic part of his career, however, namely, 
that relating to the runic ring and the quest for his father, 
he carefully reserved, giving instead an account of his 
travels through Europe, and recalling many a curious 
legend from “ out-of-the-way ” places. 

Long ere Lorelie was sated with these reminiscences 
the first stars of night glimmered in the blue air above : 
and, that nothing might be wanting to complete a ro- 
mantic situation, the moon, rising in all her glory from 
the depth of ocean, silvered with its radiance the en- 
trance of the cave. The light passed within bringing 
into relief the statuesque pose of Lorelie’s figure. It 
gleamed on her wealth of raven hair, and hallowed her 
face with new and mystic beauty, as, with her cheek pil- 
lowed on her hands, she sat attentive to Idris, drinking 
in his words as the fabled Oriental bird is said to drink 
the moonbeams. 

So lovely and interested a listener might well have 
turned the head of the frostiest hermit. What wonder, 
then, that the one thought in Idris’ mind at this moment 
was : — “ O that this might last forever ! ” 

149 


CHAPTER IX 


IDRIS MEETS A RIVAL 

O BSERVING a shiver on the part of Lorelie, due 
to the chilly air, Idris rose to put into effect a 
plan that had suddenly occurred to him. 
Charming as the situation was to himself, he had no wish 
to prolong it at the expense of discomfort to his com- 
panion. 

“ ‘ Ye gods, I grow a talker.’ I do wrong to sit here 
inactive. The air is becoming cold. Since no boat has 
hove in sight it is time we tried to attract one. Some of 
this timber, piled upon the rocks at the entrance of our 
cave, and set alight, will ‘ contrive a double debt to pay ’ 
— of giving warmth to yourself, and of serving as a 
signal-fire to the coast-guard of Ormsby.” 

Collecting a supply of logs and planks, Idris proceeded 
to form them into a little pyramid upon the boulders 
outside the mouth of the cavern. He applied a lighted 
match to the pile, and within a few minutes a glorious 
bonfire was blazing upon the rock, challenging the pale 
light of the moon, and flinging a ruddy glow over the 
breast of the heaving waters around. 

“ Now, Mademoiselle Riviere, if you will sit in this 
nook here, you will be both sheltered from the wind and 
warmed by the fire.” 

Lorelie accepted the suggestion : and, as her ankle was 
still painful, she permitted Idris to assist her to the 
assigned spot, where she sat, pleased with the cheerful 
warmth. 

150 


Idris Meets a Rival 


** This blaze ought surely to be seen and understood as 
a signal of distress," said Idris. 

As he stared at the distant moonlit cliff behind which 
the town of Ormsby lay hidden, he suddenly became 
aware that Lorelie was speaking. 

- Idris ! Idris ! " 

He turned quickly with a curious feeling. Surely she 
was not addressing him by his Christian name ? Let his 
name sound ever so silvery as it came from her lips, still, 
this mode of address in a friendship so recently formed as 
theirs, was a familiarity which jarred upon him. 

“ Idris ! Idris ! ” she repeated. 

X os y Mademoiselle Riviere," he replied, with a cold 
and significant emphasis upon the second word. 

But he found her eyes fixed, not upon him, but upon 
the flames. He followed the direction of her gaze and 
beheld a surprising sight. There, burning in the fire, was 
a thick piece of planking, and on the part of it not yet 
consumed were five black-painted letters, forming in their 
arrangement the word : — 

“ I-D-R-I-S ! " 

His own name ! Yes : there it was, plain to be seen 
on the plank, the black characters shining out clearly 
through the yellow flame. 

Lorelie had simply been murmuring the w'ord as it 
caught her eyes, without any intention of addressing him 
by it. 

How came his name to be inscribed on this piece of 
timber ? If the materials composing the fire were drift- 
wood picked up from the beach (and he did not doubt 
that such was the origin of the timber in the cave), then 
this plank was probably a relic of a sunken vessel, the 
word Idris forming its name. 

Was there any connection between himself and this 
lost barque other than mere identity of name ? 

151 


The Viking’s Skull 

His active mind, eager to give an affirmative to this 
question, immediately devised a theory. Captain Roche- 
fort, on flying from Brittany with Eric Marville, would 
be compelled by considerations of safety either to dis- 
guise and rename the yacht in which the flight had been 
effected, or, what was more probable, dispose of the 
Nemesis in some way, and purchase another vessel. 
That Captain Rochefort had so acted, naming his new 
barque after the son of his escaped friend, became Idris' 
firm conviction : for, lost to reason in his excitement, he 
overlooked the possibility that other yacht-owners might 
have a partiality for the same name. 

The plank now burning before his eyes had come from 
the figure-head of the yacht in which his father and 
Captain Rochefort had cruised about, after disposing of 
the Nemesis. 

What more likely than that, on discovering the mean- 
ing of the Norse runes (a copy of which had been made 
by Rochefort while the altar-ring was in his possession), 
the two friends, in a spirit of adventure, should steer their 
yacht’s course to Ormsby, the site of the supposed 
treasure? And here off this coast their vessel had 
foundered. 

This conclusion, if correct, would seem almost to 
justify the idea that it was impossible to escape from the 
malign influence of Odin’s ring. 

Desire for its possession had led Eric Marville into a 
mischance that had doomed him to a prison-life : he had 
escaped from the convict's cell, and had wrested the 
secret from the runic ring, only to meet with a watery 
grave in sight of the very treasure-hill that he had come 
to explore ! 

But, stay ! had Eric Marville and Captain Rochefort 
perished in the fierce currents of Ormsby Race, or had 
one, or both, been washed ashore alive ? Was the 
152 


Idris Meets a Rival 


removal of the Viking's treasure due to one of them, or 
to the joint action of the two ? 

So occupied was Idris with these thoughts that he had 
almost forgotten the presence of Lorelie, but now, on 
glancing at her, he noticed that her face wore a grave, 
not to say startled, expression, obviously due to the name 
that had been so strangely presented to her view. The 
discovery seemed to disquiet her as much as it disquieted 
himself. 

Then in a moment it occurred to him that the dead in 
Saint Oswald’s Churchyard, whose grave she was decking 
with a marble cross, were men who had perished in the 
sinking of this same vessel. The Idris. Lorelie could 
explain the mystery, if she chose. He resolved to ques- 
tion her. 

“ Mademoiselle Riviere,” he began, in an earnest 
tone, “ I believe it is within your power to throw some 
light upon a matter that, to me, is one almost of life and 
death. Pardon me, if I presume too much on our very 
recent friendship. To come to the point, I beg, nay, I 
entreat of you, to tell me all you know concerning the 
vessel whose timbers we see burning before us, the yacht 
IdriSy that went down in Ormsby Race on the night of 
the thirteenth of October, 1876.” 

Swift surprise stole over Lorelie’s face. 

And why should you think that / know anything of 
that lost vessel ? ” 

“ Ah ! mademoiselle, you are not erecting a costly 
memorial over the grave of men of whom you know 
nothing.” 

Lorelie was silent for a few moments, as if reflecting 
how to answer an obviously embarrassing question. 

It is true,” she said at last. “ I will admit that I do 
know something of that lost vessel, and that I have taken 
a deep interest in it.” 


153 


The Viking’s Skull 

The vessel carried some one dear to you ? " 

“ Really, Mr. Breakspear, you are very curious,” she 
cried, with a flash of her bright eyes. ** Before answering 
I must know the motive for this catechism.” 

I have reason to believe,” answered Idris, ** that there 
was on board one, Eric Marville by name.” 

“And what,” asked Lorelie — and at the chilling fall 
in her voice Idris started — “ what is Eric Marville to 
you, that you should take an interest in his fate?” 

For a moment Idris hesitated, loth to tell the woman 
whom he loved that he was the son of a fugitive convict. 
Then he resolved to be frank, believing that if she were 
a true woman she would not despise him for a misfortune 
not of his own causing. 

“ Eric Marville,” he answered humbly, “ is my father’s 
name.” 

At these words Lorelie Riviere shrank back in the 
Hermit’s Seat, staring at Idris, her face white, her hand 
lifted to her side. 

“Your father?” she gasped. “You Eric Marville’s 
son — j/ou ? ” 

“ The same, mademoiselle.” 

“ No, no. It cannot be. You have said that your 
name is Breakspear.” 

“ For obvious reasons I have thought proper to assume 
my mother’s maiden name.” 

“ Eric Marville’s son ! ” she repeated wildly. “ Impos- 
sible! I will not believe it.” Her wildness suddenly 
gave way to an air of disdain, and she exclaimed: 
“ Why do you seek to impose upon me ? Idris Marville 
was burned to death at Paris seven years ago.” 

“ Not so,” replied Idris, with a smile, as he proceeded 
to give his reasons for permitting himself to be advertised 
as dead. 

As Lorelie became gradually convinced of his identity 

154 


Idris Meets a Rival 


a look of dismay came over her face. She shrank from 
him, and glanced down upon the sea, as if tempted to 
plunge beneath its surface. 

“To think that you, you of all persons,” she murmured 
in a tone of awe, “ should have saved my life ! ” 

“ Then by that fact, mademoiselle, I entreat you to tell 
me whether my father perished in that shipwreck. You 
doubtless know something of his sad history ? ” 

“ I ought to know,” she returned, “ seeing that my real 
name is Lorelie Rochefort.” 

“ What do you say ? ” cried Idris in amazement. 
“ You are the daughter of Captain Noel Rochefort? ” 

She inclined her head in assent. 

“ Then we shall be the best of friends, as our fathers 
were before us.” 

“You speak without knowledge,” she replied, with a 
curious dry laugh. 

“ Did not Captain Rochefort prove his friendship by 
aiding my father to escape ? ” 

“ At my mother’s urging : he would not otherwise 
have moved in the matter.” 

“ Why was Madame Rochefort so anxious to see my 
father free ? ” 

“ You must not ask me that,” replied Lorelie quickly, 
and looking alarmed the moment afterwards, as if be- 
trayed into a rash statement. 

This was certainly a strange answer, and Idris pondered 
over it in the silence that followed. There seemed no 
other explanation of her words than that there had 
existed a guilty love-intrigue between Madame Roche- 
fort and Eric Marville. Was it possible that Lorelie her- 
self was the offspring of ? With a shiver he put 

the suspicion aside. No : he would not think that! 

“ Is Captain Rochefort still living?” 

“ It is extremely unlikely.” 

155 


The Viking's Skull 

** He went down with the yacht Idris ? ” 

In all probability.” 

He was not among the bodies washed ashore ? ” 

“ They were bruised and swollen beyond recognition.” 

“ Was my father on board the yacht the night it 
sank ? ” 

“ So far as I have been able to gather he was not.” 

“ Not?” said Idris, in a tone of joy. ‘‘ Then he may 
still be living. May I ask, mademoiselle, how you have 
learned this ? ” 

“ From my father’s last letter to my mother, with 
whom he kept up a correspondence during his cruise. 
The letter is dated * The yacht Idris. In Ormsby Roads, 
October 13th, 1876. 7 p. m.,’ and the postscript is some- 
thing to this effect, * Marville is going ashore, leaving me 
aboard. He will not return till the morrow. I am 
despatching this letter to the post by the sailor who rows 
Marville ashore.’ Those are the last words my mother 
received. That same night, four hours after the letter 
was written, the Idris went down.” 

“ And you cannot tell me whether my father is living 
to-day ? ” 

I know nothing more of Eric Marville since the night 
of the wreck.” 

You have preserved all your father’s letters ? ” 

“ Naturally.” 

Idris here ventured on a very bold request. 

Would it be asking too much to let me see this corre- 
spondence, or at least, some part of it ? ” 

“ Not if you were to give me a diamond for each word 
it contained,” she said firmly. 

At least, mademoiselle,” he continued more humbly, 
** you will give me the purport of those passages that 
relate to my father ? ” 

“ That would be to compromise myself.” 

156 


Idris Meets a Rival 


Whatever secrets those letters contain shall be re- 
spected by me.” 

** Not so,” said Lorelie sadly. “ Mr. Breakspear, Idris 
Marville, or whatever name you will, I believe you to be 
a man of honour ” 

“ Then why not trust me ? ” 

“ Because you would consider yourself justified in 
breaking your pledge of secrecy. I dare not trust you. 
No oath could be binding in such a case as this. You 
would proclaim aloud to the world the contents of those 
letters.” 

In spite of her words, Idris, with justifiable curiosity, 
continued to press her with questions relative to his fa- 
ther’s movements after the flight from Quilaix, but to all 
his interrogations Lorelie remained coldly mute. 

“ And you will tell me nothing more than you have 
told ? ” he said at last. 

His sorrowful tone seemed to touch her to the quick. 
The icy expression faded from her face and gave way to 
one of warmth and tenderness. Her eyes became 
luminous with tears, but, as if desirous of resisting his 
pleading, she averted her head and hid her face in her 
hands. 

“ Do not question me further,” she entreated. “ Not 
to answer is painful, but to answer would be more pain- 
ful still. O, why did you reveal your true name? I 
shall never be happy again. If I had but known you 
twelve months ago, all would have been well, but now — 
now it is too late. In revealing what you wish, nay, 
what you ought to know, I should be injuring the 
interests of, not myself, for that would matter little, but 
the interests of others. You do not understand — how 
should you ? — but some day you will learn my mean- 
ing, and then — and then ” her voice faltered, “ how 

the world will despise me! you more than all others. 

157 


The Viking's Skull 

Mr. Breakspear, if you knew my real character you 
would have left me lying on the sand to be overwhelmed 
by the tide. I would that you had ! ” 

Though Idris knew not what meaning to affix to this 
speech, it did not abate in one degree his love for her : 
nay, her very air of humiliation, plaintive and touching, 
served only to enhance her attractiveness. When he re- 
called the heroic look upon her face in the presence of 
death, and the clasping of her hands in prayer upon her 
deliverance, he could not bring himself to think ill of 
her. Her mysterious self-accusations must be the result 
of some delusion : or, if something did attach to her that 
the world would call guilt, he did not doubt that justifica- 
tion would be found for it. 

“ Mademoiselle," he replied, with a grave smile, “ you 
seem to regard me in the light of an enemy, when my 
chief desire is to occupy a high place in your friendship." 
He would have said “ heart " had he dared. “ Since the 
subject of the yacht is painful to you, I will not refer to 
it again in your presence." 

“ Then my reticence will not make an enemy of 
you ? " asked Lorelie, raising her beautiful eyes with a 
yearning in them that moved him strangely. 

“ Certainly not, mademoiselle. Let me know that 
you do not despise me on account of my father’s guilt, 
or supposed guilt, and I am content." 

“ Despise you ? Oh, no ! How can you say that ? 
Mr. Breakspear," she continued, with a faltering voice, 
if — if there be one circumstance more than another 
that enlists my sympathies in your behalf, it is — the — 
the event of which you speak." 

The pitying look in her eyes caused Idris’ blood to 
course like liquid fire through his veins. Had she been 
the guiltiest woman living that glance would have 
palliated all and have made him her slave forever. 

158 


Idris Meets a Rival 


There is no knowing what he might have said or done 
at this moment had he not been checked by a sudden 
exclamation from her. Looking in the direction in- 
dicated by her he saw a boat rowed by seven of the 
Ormsby fishermen coming over the waves towards them 
in gallant style. 

“ Our imprisonment is drawing to an end/’ said Idris, 
adding to himself, “ the more’s the pity.” 

The sight of the approaching boat seemed to put an 
end to Lorelie’s emotion. She began to regain some- 
thing of her former sweet self. 

By her own unaided efforts she rose to her feet, and 
leaning against the rock, waved her handkerchief as an 
encouragement to the rowers. A cheer broke from the 
men as soon as they recognized her ; for, by reason of 
her liberality to the poor of Ormsby, Mademoiselle 
Riviere had become, at least among the lower orders of 
the town, a favourite second only to Beatrice Ravengar 
herself. 

Ere long the boat’s side grated against the rock, and 
Lorelie, assisted by Idris on the one hand, and by a 
gallant fisherman on the other, was lifted down from 
point to point, and finally lodged in the bow of the rock- 
ing boat, Idris taking his seat beside her. 

The still-flaming timbers of the fire having been ex- 
tinguished by the easy process of tossing them into the 
sea, the men pushed off, and the Hermit’s Cave rapidly 
receded from view. 

In answer to the questioning of her rescuers Lorelie 
gave an account of the circumstances which had led to 
the enforced captivity of herself and Idris, adding : — 

“ We owe you something more substantial than thanks 
for responding so quickly to our fire-signal.” 

“ Lord bless you ! ” responded one of the crew gallantly, 
“ to rescue such a bonny bird we would row fifty miles.” 
^S9 


The Viking's Skull 

They created quite a sensation as they drew near the 
beach of Ormsby, where a miscellaneous crowd was as- 
sembled; for the news had been spread abroad by 
Lorelie's frightened maid that her mistress had been 
missing since the morning, and, accordingly, it had been 
conjectured that the strange light visible at the foot of 
the distant cliff might have some connection with her 
disappearance. And when it was seen that the ap- 
proaching boat contained the missing lady there arose an 
outburst of cheering and a waving of hats, that drew the 
colour to her hitherto pale cheek. 

Among the first to meet the boat at the water’s edge 
was Godfrey ; and on learning that Lorelie had hurt her 
foot, nothing less would satisfy him than an immediate 
inspection of her ankle. 

“ The case may be more serious than you think it,” 
said he. 

So Lorelie, escorted by Idris and Godfrey, repaired, 
under smiling protest, to the parlour of a cottage fronting 
the beach, where, after due examination, the surgeon pro- 
nounced the injury to be nothing more serious than a 
sprain. 

“ Still, you must not set your foot to the ground just 
yet,” he added. We will procure a carriage to take you 
home.” 

Scarcely had he said this when the rattle of wheels was 
heard outside. A vehicle of some sort had drawn up in 
front of the cottage. A minute afterwards the parlour 
door opened giving entrance to Viscount Walden. 

His acknowledgment of the surgeon was limited to, 
“ Ah ! Godfrey : ” of Idris he took no notice at all. 
Walking up to Lorelie he smiled in a manner which 
showed that they were no strangers to each other, and 
Godfrey, recalling the viscount’s utterances in the crypt 
of Ravenhall, “ I hope Lorelie will be satisfied,” looked 
i6o 


Idris Meets a Rival 


on at their meeting with considerable interest, wonder- 
ing whether there really were some guilty secret between 
them. 

“ Mademoiselle Riviere, I am delighted to meet you in 
England,” said Ivar. “ Passing along the road outside 
and observing the crowd in front of this cottage I stopped 
my carriage to ascertain the cause. Imagine my surprise 
on learning thst you were within. Welcome to Ormsby ! 
You find our climate a little trying, I expect, after the 
sunny air and the blue skies of the Riviera? You have 
sprained your ankle, I understand, and find a difficulty in 
walking. If you desire a carriage to convey you home, 
mine is at your service.” 

Ivar’s proposal to carry off Lorelie in his own carriage 
roused all Idris' jealousy, of which he had the ordinary 
mortal’s share. It was not very agreeable to hear Lorelie 
assenting, and to observe that she smiled upon Ivar as 
pleasantly as she had smiled upon himself. 

With a motion of her hand she directed the viscount’s 
attention to Idris. 

Lord Walden, Mr. ” 

‘‘ Breakspear,” interposed Idris quickly, fearing lest 
she should inadvertently pronounce the name of Mar- 
ville. 

Lorelie gave him a sympathetic glance, which assured 
him that his secret was quite safe in her keeping. 

“ Lord Walden,” she continued, “ Mr. Breakspear, a 
gentleman to whom I owe my life.” 

In some surprise Ivar turned to survey the saviour of 
Mademoiselle Riviere, and beheld a man of about thirty 
years, with fine dark eyes and an athletic figure — a man 
evidently of good birth ; his countenance expressive of a 
spirit that showed if he should set his mind upon accom- 
plishing an object, say of winning a woman’s love, he 
would succeed, or make it go extremely ill with those who 
II i6i 


The Viking’s Skull 

endeavoured to thwart him: and, noting all this, Ivar, 
who was of a mean nature, took secret umbrage. 

Idris was about to offer his hand, but observing that the 
viscount was stiffly bowing with his hands behind him, 
he thought he could not do better than imitate the other’s 
example. 

For a moment the two men eyed each other, both ap- 
parently animated by a spirit of defiance, the cause of 
which was patent enough to Godfrey in the person of the 
charming woman sitting between them. 

Idris, mindful of the fact that he was the son of an 
escaped convict, while Ivar was the descendant of a line 
of belted earls, felt bitterly the contrast between their re- 
spective positions. 

“ How this fellow would sneer, if he knew the truth ! ” 
was his thought. 

Lord save us ! ” the woman, who owned the cottage, 
whispered to Godfrey. ** How like they are ! The same 
proud face upon each ! ” 

The surgeon glanced from one to the other, and was 
compelled to admit that there certainly was a resemblance 
in features between the two men, a resemblance which 
would have been the stronger, had not Idris been dark, 
and Ivar fair. 

While Lorelie gave a brief account of her rescue, Ivar 
listened with impatience, evidently of opinion that For- 
tune, while permitting Idris to save Mademoiselle Riviefe, 
might at least have had the good sense to drown him 
afterwards. 

At the next Parish Council,” said Lorelie to Godfrey, 
** you must call attention to the ‘ Stairs of David.’ ” 

“ The ladder ought certainly to be seen to,” said Idris, 
“ but for my part, mademoiselle,” he added, bowing to 
Lorelie, ** I shall never regret the instability of that struc- 
ture.” 


Idris Meets a Rival 


Ivar, who had refrained from speech both during 
Lorelie’s story and at its close, now offered his arm to 
help her to the carriage. A shade of vexation passed 
over her face at the viscount’s obvious indifference to 
Idris’ services on her behalf. 

** My ankle is still weak,” she said, turning to Idris. 
“ Mr. Breakspear, may I ask for your help, too ? ” 

Idris responded with a cheerfulness that became the 
more cheerful as he noticed Ivar’s scowl. 

Thus escorted Lorelie passed into the moonlit air with- 
out, and reached the brougham. Idris held the door 
while she stepped in. The viscount followed, shutting 
the door with a loud slam, that said as plainly as words, 
“No more shall enter here.” 

Lorelie looked more vexed than ever at this discourtesy 
towards Godfrey and Idris : but as the carriage was not 
hers it was out of her power to offer them a seat. 

However, as if desirous of sweetening the parting, 
she extended her little hand through the carriage- 
window, accompanying her action with a gracious 
smile. 

“ Good-night, Mr. Breakspear,” she murmured, softly. 
“ I shall never forget the debt I owe you.” 

“ Drive on,” cried Ivar, brusquely, to the coachman. 
“ The Cedars, North Road.” 

The horses dashed off, and as the brougham turned 
the corner of the road, Idris caught a glimpse of Lorelie, 
bending forward at the carriage- window, with her face 
turned in his direction. 

He lifted his hat, and the next moment she was lost to 
view. 

“ Idris,” said Godfrey, “ you love that young lady.” 

“ And you must have a heart of stone not to love her, 
too.” 

“ Humph ! it would be rather awkward if all men were 

163 


The Viking’s Skull 

to desire the same woman. Isn’t one rival enough for 
you?” 

Truth to tell, Idris had been much disquieted by the 
readiness with which Lorelie had surrendered herself to 
the will of Viscount Walden. It seemed almost as if 
some secret understanding existed between them. God- 
frey, though he refrained from saying so, had no doubt 
whatever on the point. 

All things being equal,” he continued, “ I believe the 
lady would favour you : but, you see, a prospective cor- 
onet is a very powerful attraction, and I fear the coronet 
will gain the day.” 

Idris repudiated this forecast, vigorously anathematiz- 
ing the name of Viscount Walden, after which his 
thoughts turned to a theme, almost equal in interest to 
his love for Lorelie, namely, his father’s fate. 

** He was not on the yacht when it sank, so Mademoi- 
selle Riviere declares : then what became of him ? I did 
right to come to Ormsby, it seems, since it was in this 
neighbourhood that he was last heard of. But, alas ! that 
was twenty-two years ago. Is he living to-day, and 
shall I ever find him ? ” 


164 


CHAPTER X 


A LITTLE PIECE OF STEEL 

T he clock was Striking the hour of ten at night 
as Beatrice Ravengar rose to put away the em- 
broidery with which she had been occupied. 
Save for the companionship of her faithful St. Bernard 
she was alone. Godfrey was out visiting his patients. 
Idris had been absent since noon, and Beatrice won- 
dered what had become of him, little thinking that he 
was passing his time in a moonlit cave, tUe-a-tete with 
Mademoiselle Riviere. The page-boy, who was accus- 
tomed to sleep at his own home, had taken his departure : 
and as for the housemaid, well, every one knows that 
when housemaids promise to be home punctually by 
nine p. m., they mean any time up to eleven, and Beatrice's 
little domestic was no exception to this rule. 

Methodical in all her ways Beatrice was in the habit 
of mapping out beforehand a certain amount of work to 
be done during the day. Her self-allotted tasks being 
now completed she was ready for bed, but could not 
think of retiring before the return of the absentees. 

With a little yawn she wondered what she should do 
to fill up the gap of time, and seeing a book lying upon 
the table, one that Idris had been reading earlier in the 
day, she took it up and found it to be a novel. 

Beatrice as a rule avoided fiction, but on the present 
occasion she felt herself unequal to anything but the 
lightest kind of literary confectionery, and, accordingly, 
settling herself comfortably in her armchair, she began 
to read the novel, which bore the title of “ The Fair Ori- 
165 


The Viking’s Skull 

entalisty It was of the nightmare order, and dealt with 
the doings of an Eastern lady, gifted with occult powers. 

After the first chapter Beatrice glanced down to make 
sure that the faithful Leo was lying at her feet : when 
reading a story of the* supernatural at night it is good to 
have a companion with us, though that companion be 
but a dog. 

Having finished the second chapter she threw a glance 
at the windows, and was glad to observe that the blinds 
were drawn, since at night-time panes of glass are some- 
times apt to reflect the gaslight in such a way as to create 
the impression that there are eyes on the outside watch- 
ing us. 

At the end of the third chapter Beatrice had become 
positively alarmed at the clairvoyance and occult powers 
ascribed to the Oriental lady : and yet, so fascinated was 
she by the story that, despite her growing fears, she 
found it impossible to lay down the book. 

Hark ! what was that ? 

A sound, coming apparently from the upper storey, 
echoed through the lonely house. With a beating heart 
Beatrice ceased reading, and listened. The sound was 
repeated, and she smiled at her fears. The latticed win- 
dow at the head of the staircase was open, and flapping 
idly on its hinges. That was all ! 

This thought, however, was quickly followed by another 
that revived her uneasiness. Since the casement had 
been ajar all the evening why had it not flapped before ? 

‘‘The wind must be rising,” thought Beatrice: and 
with this reasonable explanation she resumed her read- 
ing. 

O, that window ! 

It persisted in flapping to and fro at intervals, the ir- 
regularity of which was the most annoying part of the 
matter. 


i66 


A Little Piece of Steel 


Sometimes the sound was so faint as to be scarcely 
audible : then, after a lapse of silence so long as to prom- 
ise that the torment had altogether ceased, the casement 
would give a rattle louder than ever, and more startling 
by contrast with the previous stillness. A little more 
force on the part of the wind would result in the shatter- 
ing of those diamond panes. 

“ I must go up and shut it ! ” 

Sensible resolve! But it was not carried out. The 
incident, trifling though it was, combined with the effect 
of the novel, had reduced her to a state of nervous- 
ness so great that she durst not ascend the staircase to 
close the window. Despising herself for her cowardice 
she remained in her armchair, neglecting the only ef- 
fectual way of ending the annoyance. 

She glanced again at the dog, and derived some as- 
surance from his quiet air. Though wideawake he did 
not display any signs of alarm. 

“ One advantage brute creatures have over the human,” 
thought she. “ They never frighten themselves with 
ghostly fears.” 

She again fixed her eyes upon the book, endeavouring 
to ignore the real terror by a forced attention to an 
imaginary one, a literary homaeopathy that was scarcely 
likely to be successful. 

One of the powers possessed by the Fair Orientalist 
was that of enduing inanimate objects with her own 
magnetism by virtue of which they became gifted for the 
time being with sentience and motion. 

The fancy now seized Beatrice, so deeply had she 
fallen under the spell of the weird romance, that the rest- 
less casement above was moved by similar means, and 
that its flapping was designed to call her attention to — 
she knew not what. A strange idea ! But it grew upon 
her, and increased till it filled her mind to the exclusion 

167 


The Viking’s Skull 

of everything else. The book, neglected, slid from her 
knees, and she sat listening to the swinging of the case- 
ment. And as it is possible to tell the mood of a musi- 
cian by the notes he plays, so Beatrice fancied she could 
detect a meaning in each variation of sound. 

First, there was a sharp slam intended primarily to 
arrest attention, like the ting-ting of the telegraph oper- 
ator: next, a low plaintive swing beseeching her to 
ascend the stairs and come to the rescue, followed by a 
remonstratory flap censuring her for delaying. Then 
ensued a slow solemn sound suggestive of the gravity of 
the situation : finally, there came a loud rattle that 
echoed through the house as if threatening penalties for 
her negligence. 

The geologist will read history in a cliff: Beatrice 
read a whole tragedy in the varying tones of that case- 
ment. 

And now, a mysterious influence, emanating from the 
latticed window, seemed to steal silently down the stair- 
case like a ghost, and entering the apartment where she 
sat and enwrapping her with an unseen pall of horror, 
whispered a thought that swept all the warmth from her 
body and left her icy-cold. 

The Viking's skull ! 

At the head of the staircase, on the ledge of the em- 
brasured window, was the grim memorial, taken at mid- 
night from the sepulchral mound. Beatrice’s mind 
became impressed with the belief that the casement was 
flapping in sympathy with the skull, was its mouthpiece, 
so to speak — nay more, that the dread relic itself was 
moaning to be taken back to its ancient resting-place. 
Her quickening fancy drew a picture of the skull, whis- 
pering, nodding, grinning, its hollow orbs illumined with 
blue, phosphorescent light. 

Gazing fearfully at the door she saw that it was open. 

1 68 


A Little Piece of Steel 


She must close it ere the horrid object should come 
gliding down the staircase into the room. 

Summoning up her small amount of remaining courage 
Beatrice rose, and with timid, staccato steps, approached 
the door, attended by Leo. Mute as a statue she stood 
in the attitude of listening, her fingers on the door- 
handle. 

Was it the voice of the breeze sighing through the 
half-opened casement, or was it the skull whispering and 
chuckling with ghostly glee ? She had but to step for- 
ward two paces to be within the corridor, and by looking 
up the staircase would see the skull at its head. 

But this was more than she durst do. To her dismay 
Leo had walked out of the room, and refused to return. 
She could not shut the door upon the dog : in her present 
state of mind his presence was an absolute necessity, and 
yet, to venture out into the passage to bring him back, 
and by so doing come within sight of the skull, was a 
feat beyond her courage. 

The corridor-lamp had not been lighted. The glory 
of the full moon shone on the staircase window at such 
an angle that the outline of the casement was projected 
upon the floor of the passage directly within view of the 
door at which she was standing. She could not avoid 
seeing the oblong patch of spectral white. But that 
shadow in the centre like a human head, black and still 
as if nailed to the flooring ! It was the silhouette of the 
skull ! 

Trembling, she averted her eyes from the shadow, and 
fortunately at that moment Leo, having decided that the 
room was more comfortable than the corridor, reentered 
the apartment, and Beatrice instantly closed the door 
and turned the key, feeling more at ease now that an 
inch of oak interposed between herself and the object at 
the stair head. 

169 


The Viking’s Skull 

But now came another terror ! 

Leo had taken his place on the hearth-rug where he 
remained quiet for a few minutes. Then, suddenly, he 
began to grow restive. Giving a low growl he started to 
his feet, and after looking about on all sides began to 
walk round the room, sniffing suspiciously at the floor, as 
if he expected danger from the cellar below rather than 
from the staircase above. 

His investigations concluded, the poor brute sat down 
on his haunches, and lifting up his head gave utterance 
to one long and plaintive howl. And if every dog ut- 
tered prophecy Leo uttered it at that moment, and the 
tenor of his prediction was that some dire peril was at 
hand. 

Beatrice, who had followed the animal from one part 
of the room to another, repeating “ Leo, Leo, what’s the 
matter?” as if he were capable of speech, knelt by his 
side and found him quivering in every limb, his hair 
bristling as if with fear. 

Hark! 

A gust of wind, more forcible than any that had pre-"^ 
ceded it, slammed the staircase window with a loud bang, 
shivering its diamond panes : and — more alarming still I 
— this accident was accompanied by a sound like the fall 
of some light object. 

Beatrice doubted not for a moment that the skull had 
dropped from the ledge and was now coming down the 
staircase. 

Nor did she err. A second bump told her that the 
thing had rolled over one stair. A third fall ensued, and 
'then a fourth. These sounds did not follow instantane- 
ously one upon another, but there Wcis between each a 
distinct pause, suggestive of the idea that the skull was 
endowed with a volition and a motion of its own : as if, in 
fact, it were choosing its way, and descending at leisure. 
170 


A Little Piece of Steel 


Awaiting the issue Beatrice sat, the very picture of 
terror, her hands clasped, her dilated eyes riveted on the 
door of the apartment. It seemed many minutes since 
the skull had begun its descent, though, perhaps, fifteen 
seconds had scarcely elapsed. Finally, the lowest stair 
was reached, and the skull, pitching forward, rolled up to 
the door of the apartment, as if seeking admittance. 

At its dread knock the walls and floor of the room 
seemed to tremble. The lights in the gasalier went out, 
leaving the chamber in semi-darkness. The dying em- 
bers of the fire, flickering strangely and unsteadily, caused 
weird shapes to spring up from floor to ceiling. 

At the same time a vibratory motion was communi- 
cated to Beatrice's person. She found herself oscillating 
to and fro, unable to check herself. A mysterious power 
grasped her ankles with unseen fingers and strove to ele- 
vate her in air. 

Fully believing that her last hour had come Beatrice 
gave one long pealing cry, in which the terrified yelp of 
the dog mingled. She was shot violently forward : a 
noise like the rattle produced by a thousand falling plates 
rang in her ears, and tumbling headlong to the carpet 
she lost all consciousness. 

♦ 5K ♦ ♦ ♦ 

When Beatrice next opened her eyes she found her- 
self lying on the sofa with three persons standing beside 
her: Godfrey was sprinkling her face and throat with 
cold water : the housemaid was applying a bottle of 
strong salts to her nostrils : and Idris was holding a 
candle, the feeble light of which he strove to steady by 
shielding it with his hand. The windows and door were 
wide open, and the cool night air was blowing through 
the room, laden with a faint odour of escaped gas. 

Beatrice gave a feeble smile of recognition, and then 
171 


The Viking’s Skull 

gazed vacantly around the apartment, unable at first to 
recall what had preceded the present state of affairs. 

The room presented a scene of confusion. All the 
pictures hung awry: the ornaments of the mantel had 
fallen, and lay, some shattered to pieces, within the fire- 
place: fragments of one of the gasalier globes starred 
the carpet : the doors of the bookcase were open, and 
many of the volumes had been projected from their 
shelves to the floor. On the table was the Viking’s 
skull, the cause, in some mysterious way, of all this dis- 
order ; at least, such was Beatrice’s opinion. 

** I have been horribly frightened ! ” she said, as soon 
as she had recovered the use of speech. 

“ And well you might be ! ” replied Idris. ** Godfrey 
and I had just reached the door, when the house shook 
to its foundations, and out went all the lights. By 
heaven ! I thought the place was coming down. We 
have had an earthquake shock.” 

But the imaginative mind of Beatrice, still under the 
spell of T/ie Fair Orientalist^' was not prepared to ac- 
cept this rational explanation. 

Earthquakes don’t happen in England,” she declared. 

“ Slight shocks occasionally occur here,” said Idris, 
“ and the present one is a case in point. Why,” he 
added, observing Beatrice’s dissentient shake of her head, 
‘‘ what else could it have been ? ” 

I cannot say,” she answered, shivering, and glancing 
at the Viking’s skull. But this much I know, that long 
before the house shook and the gas went out, I was 
frightened by strange sounds coming from the head of 
the staircase where the skull was, and so — and so ” 

And here Beatrice paused, not knowing how to 
express to others that which was not very clear to 
herself. 

“ And so you began to think that the skull was talking 
172 


A Little Piece of Steel 


and threatening you with mystic oracles ? Fie, Trixie,” 
said her brother, reprovingly. “ I did not think you 
could be so foolish.” 

But perceiving that it would be useless at this juncture 
to try to reason her out of her belief, such process being 
best reserved for the sober light of morning, Godfrey 
turned to give some orders to the housemaid. 

“ Ha ! ” exclaimed Idris, picking up the novel from the 
floor, “ so you have been reading this ? Then I don’t 
wonder that you have been frightened. ‘ The Fair Ori- 
entalist' is not a book to be read at night in a lonely 
house.” 

I will not deny that the book frightened me, but what 
was it that frightened Leo ? He cannot read ghost- 
stories, and yet he howled piteously.” 

“ Probably with that prevision instinctive in the brute 
race he discerned the coming of this catastrophe.” 

Beatrice, having now recovered herself, proposed a tour 
of the house with a view of ascertaining how much 
damage had been done. 

The walls did not exhibit any cracks or fissures, and 
apparently were as sound as before, but on the floor of 
every room proofs of the recent earth-tremor were evident 
in the shape of fallen articles. 

Breakage was especially triumphant in the kitchen. 

“ Ah me ! ” sighed Beatrice, sorrowfully. << Good-bye 
to my new tea-service ! And my pretty majolica bread- 
plate gone, too ! Nothing will convince me that this is 
not the work of the Viking. When he was alive I have 
no doubt that, being a heathen, he took a pleasure in 
slaying good Christian folk : and now that he is dead he 
shows his malignity by destroying their crockery-ware. 
A noble Viking, one would think, should be above such 
meanness.” 

On returning to the sitting-room Idris, for the enlight- 

173 


The Viking’s Skull 

enment of Beatrice, began to relate his adventure with 
Mademoiselle Riviere; and, as Beatrice listened, she be- 
came strangely disquieted by the incident. Why should 
this be ? 

But when Idris, in the course of his story, dwelt on the 
beauty of Lorelie, and above all on the heroic light of 
her eyes when she bade him leave her to save himself, 
Beatrice readily discerned by the warmth of his tone how 
matters stood with him, and realizing this, her agitation 
increased. Surprised, frightened, trembling, she found 
herself borne along on the wild wave of her emotion to 
the certain knowledge that her feelings towards Idris 
were not those of friendship simply, but of love ! 

And perceiving how deeply enthralled he was by the 
witchery of Lorelie Riviere her mind became tortured 
with exquisite pain. 

Fearing that Idris and Godfrey might observe her 
emotion and divine its cause, she seized a favourable mo- 
ment to steal from the apartment, without so little as a 
Good-night,” lest her voice should betray her. 

And on attaining her dainty bedroom she flung her- 
self upon the bed and gave way to emotion, despising 
herself as foolish, and yet unable to check her tears. 

If he but knew her true character ! ” she murmured : 
“ If he but knew ! But it is not for me to tell him. He 
will — he must learn it in time. And then — and then 
— perhaps — it may be — that ” 

But Beatrice put this hope from her as too delightful 
ever to be realized. 

‘‘ Now to examine my noble Viking,” said Idris, taking 
up the skull from the table. Let us see whether he has 
suffered any injury in his roll down-stairs. — Hul-lo ! ” 

Shaking the skull as he spoke, his attention was ar- 
rested by a faint rattle within it, a sound that he had not 
heard in his previous handlings of the relic. 

174 


A Little Piece of Steel 


Listen, Godfrey ! ” he cried in a curious tone of voice, 
and shaking the skull again. What is this inside ? 

He stopped the motion to examine the skull more 
carefully. Strange that till this moment he had not 
noticed that the occipital bone was pierced by a tiny 
hole of circular shape ! 

Do you see this, Godfrey ? ” he said, pointing out the 
orifice. This could have been caused only by a sharp- 
pointed instrument. The thing rattling within must be 
a fragment of some weapon.” 

He gave the skull another shake, when, from the ver- 
tebral orifice there dropped a piece of rusty steel about 
two inches in length, slender, rounded, and tapering to a 
point. 

“No one could live with a thing like this in his head,” 
said Idris. “ So it is clear that we have here a fragment 
of the identical weapon that gave old Orm his coup-de- 
grace!' 

A tiny piece of steel publicly exposed, say in a shop- 
window, will attract little, if any notice: but let it be 
known that the said steel is the instrument with which a 
murder has been wrought, and a whole city will come 
trooping forth to view : and fancy prices will be offered 
for it by connoisseurs of the gruesome. 

Deep, therefore, was the interest with which the two 
friends viewed their latest discovery. 

“ Then this cannot be the skull of Orm the Viking,” 
remarked Godfrey, after a thoughtful pause, “ if the 
tapestry we brought away from the tomb is to be re- 
ceived as an authority, since that represents him as slain 
by an arrow piercing his breast.” 

This contradiction between the evidence presented by 
the skull and that presented by the tapestry, perplexed 
Idris in no small degree. Having conceived the some- 
what pleasing notion that he was the possessor of the 

175 


The Viking’s Skull 

skull of Orm the Golden, he was loth to relinquish his 
belief, and prepared to argue the point. 

“ Artists, whether in needlework or in oils, are not 
always to be accepted as historic authorities. I have no 
doubt suppressio veri was practised as much in the Viking 
age as in our own. If Orm died with a wound in the 
occiput, what does that seem to show ? That he must 
have turned his back on his foes in defiance of the canons 
of Norse bravery. Do you think that the weavers of the 
tapestry would let posterity know that Orm had turned 
coward? No! therefore they make him die with an 
arrow in his breast, facing the foe, bold to the last. The 
tumulus in Ravensdale is certainly Orm’s tomb : the 
name Ormfell and the tapestry prove it, and hence the 
bones it contains must be those of Orm.” 

Hum ! I’m not convinced,” replied Godfrey. “ You 
believe this steel to be the fragment of a battle-weapon : 
of what kind of weapon? It is too slender to have 
formed part of a sword or a dagger : too finely-pointed 
to have been the barb of a lance or an arrow.” 

It may be a spike from that sort of mace which the 
Vikings in their playful way were wont to call their 
‘ Morning Star.’ This is perhaps a stellar ray.” 

“ Rather fragile for the spike of a mace, isn’t it ? ” 

True. I confess I am as much puzzled as yourself 
to name the weapon of which this once formed part.” 

For a long time Idris continued to puzzle over the 
question, polishing the steel fragment till it gleamed with 
a silvery-azure light. He suggested its connection with 
all kinds of impossible weapons, but could come to no 
satisfactory conclusion. Then, vexed by Godfrey’s 
scepticism, he said : — 

“ Well, old wiseacre, if this be not Orm’s skull, tell me 
whose it is ? ” 

“ Impossible to say — at present. My opinion is that 
176 


A Little Piece of Steel 


it is not an ancient skull at all, but a modern one. The 
future will perhaps show whether I am right. As 
‘ there’s a Divinity that shapes ’ human affairs, it may be 
that tlie earthquake of to-night has been sent for a pur- 
pose. It has had the effect of loosening the fragment 
of steel hitherto immovably fixed in the cavity of the 
skull. You will, perhaps, consider me fanciful, Idris, but 
I have a presentiment that we are on the threshold of a 
startling discovery to which this piece of steel forms a 
clue.” 


12 


177 


CHAPTER XI 


THE LEGEND OF THE RUNIC RING 

O N the morning after his adventure on the sea- 
shore Idris went out with the intention of call- 
ing upon Mademoiselle Riviere: and that he 
might not lack reasonable pretext for his visit, he took 
with him the book which she had asked him to return. 
Apart altogether from the charm of her beauty Lorelie 
interested him, both as being the daughter of Captain 
Rochefort, and likewise as the depositary of some 
strange secret relating to his father’s history. Though 
earnestly pressed by Idris she had firmly declined to give 
any account of Eric Marville from the time of his escape 
to the sinking of the yacht in Ormsby Race. It was 
difficult to assign a motive for her refusal, but Idris did 
not doubt that in course of time he would be able to 
overcome her reticence: and therefore, if only on this 
account, Lorelie Riviere was a person whose friendship 
it behoved him to cultivate. 

The way to her villa. The Cedars, took him past Saint 
Oswald’s Church, and moved by a sudden impulse, he 
turned aside to enter the edifice, which in more than one 
sense was hallowed ground to him, inasmuch as it was 
here that he had first met with Lorelie. 

Surely Eros was directing his steps! For, scarcely 
had he passed within the porch of the Ravengar Chantry 
when his ear caught the soft rustle of silk, and 
Mademoiselle Riviere herself was standing before him. 
She had entered by another door, and the basket of 
flo\vers hanging from her arm seemed to indicate that 
178 


The Legend of the Runic Ring 

her object in visiting the church was to deck its altar. 
Dressed in a graceful costume of black and silver that 
harmonized exquisitely with her delicate complexion she 
looked more beautiful and witching than ever in Idris’ 
eyes, as with a bright smile she extended her hand. 

“ And your sprained ankle ? ” he asked, when their 
first greetings were over. 

Is not my presence here a satisfactory answer to that 
question ? ” she smiled. 

“ May I ask for a flower in exchange, mademoiselle ? " 
said Idris, as he returned the book to her. 

“ Here is variety to choose from. Let me learn your 
favourite.” 

She held out the basket for Idris to make his choice. 

“ You are taking nothing but forget-me-nots,” she 
cried. 

<< I am in a parabolical mood, you see. The name of 
this flower expresses what my lips would say.” 

“ And thereby you accuse me of ingratitude.” 

“ How so ? ” 

“ By suggesting the possibility of my forgetting one 
who has saved my life,” replied Lorelie, the colour steal- 
ing over her cheek. She raised her eyes to his with an 
expression in them that thrilled him, and continued, 
“ Shall I tell you the dream I had last night ? I thought 
I was still lying on those sands where I fell, unable to 
move. The rising tide came on and rippled around me, 
striking a chill through my clothing. At last the water 
was so high that it flowed over my face, filling my 
mouth and nostrils. I fought with it, but it ascended 
higher and ever higher above me, till I was deep down 
below the surface. 

And the curious part of it all was that I still lived. 
I lay there as in a trance, motionless, staring upwards. I 
could see the air-bubbles of my breath ascending to the 
179 


The Viking’s Skull 

surface. The moon with tremulous motion shone 
through tlie glassy water, looking — oh ! ever so far 
away. The sea-weed drifted around and clung to my 
cheek and hair. Curious sea-monsters came and looked 
at me, then went away again : shell-fish crawled over me, 
and all night long the restless water flowed over my face 
and plashed in and out of my mouth. Its faint murmur 
rings in my ears still. In the morning I awoke and 
found it a dream. Then I said to myself, ‘ This is what 
would have happened if — if no one had been near to aid 
me. 

“ It is past now,” replied Idris, observing her shiver. 
** Don’t think any more about it.” 

“ The peril is past, but the memory of it remains. 
Ah, that dream! If it should occur again to-night I 
shall begin to be like Richard III, and tremble at the 
thought of sleep. Shall I put those flowers in your coat, 
Mr. Breakspear ? You seem to find it a difficulty.” 

Idris readily accepted her proffered aid. 

“ Forget-me-not,” she murmured, fastening the nosegay 
to his button-hole ; and Idris wondered whether the 
words were addressed to him, or whether she was simply 
repeating the name of the flower : the latter it seemed by 
her next remark. “ Why should our French myosotis be 
called in English, < Forget-me-not ' ? Can you tell me 
the origin of the name ? ” 

Idris could, and did : relating the somewhat apocryphal 
story of the youth, who, in wading to the opposite bank 
of a river with a view of procuring some flowers for his 
sweetheart, was swept off by the current and drowned, 
but not before he had had time to fling the flowers at her 
feet with the parting cry of “ Forget-me-not 1 ” 

“ The moral of which is,” added Idris, learn to 
swim.” 

“ You are spoiling a pretty story by your cynicism,” 

i8o 


The Legend of the Runic Ring 

said Lorelie. His love was all the greater if he could 
not swim.” 

She turned to arrange her flowers upon the altar of the 
Ravengar Chantry. Idris was watching her when his 
eye was caught by a shadow outlined on the stone pave- 
ment. The sun was shining through the window above 
the altar, and casting at his feet glowing splashes of va- 
rious hues. For a few seconds he continued to stare, 
doubtful whether he saw aright, and then, slowly raising 
his gaze, he followed the slanting shaft of coloured light 
upward from the pavement till his eyes rested upon the 
stained window. 

The central pane was blazoned with the armorial device 
of the Ravengars. The shield, supported on each side by 
a raven, in canting allusion to the family name, was 
charged in the centre with a silver circlet, a thin purple 
line forming the perimeter. 

T/te runic ring f 

Yes : there was its facsimile gleaming from the col- 
oured glass, and seeming in the morning sunlight to 
sparkle with a new and mysterious significance. That 
this argent circle was intended to represent the Norse 
altar-ring Idris had not the shadow of a doubt : and for a 
moment he felt resentment both against Beatrice and 
Godfrey : for, familiar as they must be with this coat of 
arms — Beatrice herself, as a Ravengar, being entitled to 
assume it — they had made no allusion to it when he was 
telling them the story of the runic ring. It was singular, 
too, that he himself should have failed to notice this 
blazon in his previous visit to this chantry. 

What was the reason for its figuring in the Ravengar 
shield ? 

Curious stories are often latent within armorial devices, 
as students of heraldry can testify. Was it possible that 
this ring had been adopted by the Ravengars of a past 

i8i 


The Viking’s Skull 

generation because it had been in some way connected 
with their history ? 

Mademoiselle Riviere,” said Idris, impulsively, think- 
ing that she might be able to throw some light upon the 
matter, can you tell me whether the Ravengars of past 
times had any historic reason for decorating their armorial 
shield with a silver ring ? ” 

There is an interesting legend to account for it,” she 
said after a moment’s hesitation, “ which you will find in 
a curious old book entitled, ‘ Traditions of the House of 
Ravengar! ” 

“ You know the story, then ? May I not learn it from 
you rather than from the book ? ” 

“ It is a story that will take a long time in the tell- 
ing.” 

This, in Idris’ opinion, was an excellent reason for hear- 
ing it. Lorelie found herself unable to resist his persua- 
sive manner : so, sitting down, she proceeded to tell the 
story with a detail that showed how it had caught her 
own imagination. 

In the ninth century — so ran the legend — there lived 
a Norse sea-king, who, either from the terror inspired by 
his arms, or from the gilt figure on the prow of his galley, 
was called Draco, or The Dragon.” From the great 
wealth acquired in his various water-expeditions he gained 
the additional name of The Golden.” 

Like many other heroes of the north this Draco claimed 
descent from Odin, and among his hereditaments nothing 
was more prized by him than the silver altar-ring used in 
the religious ceremonies of his clan, since it was said to 
have belonged originally to his divine ancestor. 

Draco lived at the time when the Norsemen were sail- 
ing by thousands from their own land in order to gain by 
the sword new and fairer homes in Britain. He, too, de- 
termined to have a share in the territorial spoil, and ac- 
182 


The Legend of the Runic Ring 

cordingly, equipping his dragon-keels, and gathering his 
warcarls around him, he sailed off over the seas. 

On arriving within sight of the Northumbrian coast he 
had recourse to the gods for fixing the precise point of 
his disembarkation : he let fly two ravens consecrated to 
Odin, and following in their wake landed where they had 
alighted. 

He quickly put to the rout those Northumbrians who 
attempted to oppose him, and proceeded to confirm his 
victory by building a fortress on the site of the existing 
Ravenhall. Sallying forth from this place he would 
plunder the neighbouring monasteries, or, putting out to 
sea, attack the merchant vessels that passed his shores, 
thus becoming possessed in course of time, of a vast 
quantity of treasure in the shape of gold and silver, church- 
plate, coinage, jewels, and the like. 

In his old age he met with the end deemed worthy of 
a warrior, being slain in battle whilst contending against 
a neighbouring chieftain. At his burial a Norse scald 
composed that wild barbaric requiem, which Idris had 
heard Lorelie playing on the organ — a requiem that had 
accompanied the funeral of every Ravengar since : though 
doubtless with considerable variations from the original 
strain. 

Draco left one son only, Magnus by name. He was 
but a child at the time of his father’s death, and the 
widowed mother, Hilda, fearing that an attempt might be 
made to deprive him of his patrimonial treasure, secretly 
buried it, purposing to give it to her son when he should 
be of age to defend his rights. 

For a time all went well. The warriors who had fol- 
lowed the standard of Draco rallied around his son, and 
looked forward to the day when he should emulate or 
surpass the deeds of his father. But eventually murmur- 
ings arose. The boy was too much under his mother’s 

183 


The Viking’s Skull 

influence, they thought : the hand that should have been 
wielding the spear was more often found holding the pen. 
She was accused of teaching him dark and curious arts. 

It was a long time, however, before the Vikings ven- 
tured to express their displeasure openly, for they feared 
Hilda. She was an Alruna, that is, an all-runic or all- 
wise woman, who had power to cast pernicious spells 
upon those who offended her. 

At last, one day, provoked to the extreme by some act 
of imprudence on her part, they came to Magnus and 
telling him that they were going to banish his mother, 
they gave him the choice of being their chieftain or of 
accompanying her into exile. Magnus elected to stand 
with his father’s warriors, and, as head of the clan, in full 
and solemn doom-ring, he pronounced upon his mother 
sentence of perpetual banishment. 

Cut to the heart by this unfilial act Hilda vowed 
that she would never reveal to him the hiding-place 
of the treasure : and so, being banished, she returned to 
her native Norseland, taking with her the silver altar-ring. 

With the lapse of time, however, she began to relent 
towards her absent son. She yearned to see him again, 
but was now too old to undertake the fatigues attending 
the voyage. She resolved to break her oath of silence 
and to tell him where the treasure lay concealed. To 
secure herself from treachery on the part of her mes- 
senger, who might have appropriated the wealth himself 
if entrusted with the secret of its hiding-place, she had 
recourse to the following expedient. She engraved upon 
the altar-ring a sentence indicative of the exact site of 
the treasure, making use of runic letters, arranged in such 
a way that none but Magnus could understand them : for 
cryptic writing had been one of the many arts she had 
taught him. This done, she despatched the ring by the 
hand of a herald. 


184 


The Legend of the Runic Ring 

But Magnus was now dead. His son and successor 
was Ulric, who, because his lance bore a small pennon 
decorated with the figure of a raven, was called Ravengar 
or Raven Spear, a name that became hereditary. 

Hilda’s messenger entered the hall at the hour when 
Ulric sat feasting with his warriors. In accordance with 
the Norse rites of hospitality the herald was given a seat 
at the board. No question was asked of him, and he 
resolved to defer his message till the meal should be over. 
This delay proved fatal to him, for, during the course of 
the feast, he accidentally drew forth the altar-ring. In a 
moment the ancient greybeards — old companions of 
Draco — recognized the sacred relic of Odin, and sternly 
commanded the stranger to explain how he became 
possessed of their former chieftain’s ring : it had formed 
a part of the missing treasure : he must, therefore, know 
where the remainder was. 

With a stammering tongue the herald stated that he 
was a messenger from the Lady Hilda, and pointing to 
the inscription upon the ring, said that it indicated the 
hiding-place of the treasure. 

Ulric, unskilled in the art of letters, passed the ring on 
to the sagamen and scalds, who shook their heads over it. 
Magnus, the only one capable of reading the riddle, was 
no more. The herald himself was unable to decipher the 
message that his mistress had caused to be engraved. To 
the assembled Vikings his words seemed an idle tale : his 
ignorance was imputed to knavery : swords gleamed in 
the air : the oaken rafters rang with excited cries. 

At one end of the hall on a dais there stood, as was 
usual in those days, rude images of the gods. To this 
spot the herald was dragged and told that unless he 
revealed the hiding-place of the treasure he should be 
sacrificed there and then to Odin and Thor. 

Vain was his plea of ignorance : vain his appeal for 

185 


The Viking’s Skull 

mercy : he was slain by the dagger of Ulric, himself the 
priest as well as the chief of the clan : the altar-ring was 
dipped in the blood of the victim, and the red drops were 
sprinkled on all present. With his dying breath the 
herald called upon heaven to be his avenger, invoking a 
curse upon the head of him who should discover the 
treasure, and praying that the finder might meet with a 
death as violent as his own. 

Afterwards, when Ulric came to clean the ring, he 
found he could not remove the stain of blood, and the 
sagamen who examined it declared that the mark would 
never be effaced till one of the Raven-race should die as an 
atonement for the death of the herald, whose sacred char- 
acter had been impiously set at nought. 

Ulric retained the ring as the symbol of his authority : 
at his death it passed to his son, and so from generation 
to generation it continued in the Ravengar family as a 
venerated heirloom. In the days of Charles II the first 
Earl of Ormsby, Lancelot Ravengar, adopted the ring as 
an armorial device, taking as his supporters two ravens, 
in allusion to the birds that were said to have directed the 
course of Draco's galley. 

Such was the story of the runic ring> a story to which 
Idris listened with the deepest interest. It was clear to 
him that his Viking Orm and Lorelie’s Draco were 
identical, the Norse form of the name having doubtless 
been changed into its Latin equivalent by the original 
monkish chronicler. 

** And is the ring still in the possession of the Raven- 
gars ? ” he asked, when Lorelie had come to the end of 
her story. 

No : about fifty years ago it was stolen.” 

“ Under what circumstances ? ” 

** The affair was a mystery. The ring was kept with 
other heirlooms in the jewel-room at Ravenhall. Ac- 
186 


The Legend of the Runic Ring 

cording to the butler it was secure in its glass case when 
he locked the door of the jewel-room at night : in the 
morning it was gone. Suspicion fell upon a steward who 
was under notice of dismissal : it is supposed that he was 
actuated by a spirit of revenge. The detectives em- 
ployed in the case failed, however, to connect him with 
the theft, nor did their investigations lead to any result 
so far as regards the recovery of the ring.” 

The steward, if he were guilty, probably disposed of 
the relic on the Continent,” said Idris. *• At any rate it 
found its way to Nantes, for the Ravengar heirloom must 
surely have been the very ring which led to the murder 
of M. Duchesne and the consequent arrest of my father.” 

“ I believe — nay, I am certain it was,” answered 
Lorelie. 

Her eyes drooped and a shadow passed over her face. 
Any reference to Eric Marville seemed to trouble her, 
and Idris resolved to avoid the mention of his name. 

“ And during the many centuries in which this ring 
was in the possession of the Ravengars,” he continued, 
** was no one ever found capable of deciphering the runic 
inscription ? ” 

No one. In time past the ring was submitted to 
many antiquaries, but they could make nothing of it.” 

Idris, though justly proud of his success in a matter 
wherein experts had failed, kept his own counsel for the 
present, and refrained from mentioning that ke had ac- 
complished the feat. 

Then, of course, the treasure of old Orm — Draco, I 
mean — has never been discovered ? ” 

** Not by a Ravengar.” 

** But by some one else probably. It is not likely that 
the buried treasure has remained undiscovered for a 
thousand years.” 

“ The legend says that only a Ravengar can discover 
187 


The Viking’s Skull 

it, and that in the very moment of discovery he will for- 
feit his life as an atonement for the death of the herald. 
But this," added Lorelie with a smile, “ is, of course, 
mere poetic fancy." 

“ There is one omission in your story. You did not 
state where this sea-king, Draco, was buried." 

“ The legend does not say. You are forgetting that it 
is a legend, invented, perhaps, by some imaginative 
king-at-arms in order to decorate the vanity of the first 
Earl of Ormsby with a long pedigree and a romantic 
origin." 

But Idris had received proofs that the story was true 
in the main. For example, there had actually existed an 
altar-ring such as described — for he had seen and handled 
it himself — a ring engraved with a sentence which not 
only spoke of a buried treasure, but also bore the names 
of the very persons, Orm, Hilda, and Magnus, who had 
figured so prominently in the story. The fragment of 
tapestry brought from the interior of the ancient tumulus 
supplied additional evidence as to the historic existence 
of the Golden Viking and the widowed Hilda. 

“ This Draco," continued Idris, ** if he received the 
sepulchral honours due to a Norse chief, would be buried 
beneath an immense mound of earth. If we are to look 
for his tomb in this neighbourhood we shall perhaps find 
it in a tumulus on the seashore about four miles from 
here." 

I know the eminence you refer to," replied Lorelie. 
“ It is called Ormfell, that is, Orm’s Hill ; and therefore 
it cannot be Draco’s tomb, otherwise it would be called 
Draconfell, or something similar." 

Idris did not stop to show the fallacy of this mode of 
reasoning, but continued ; — 

“ Has this hillock never been opened by the Earls of 
Ormsby to see what it contains ? " 
i88 


The Legend of the Runic Ring 

“Not that I am aware of.” 

It was strange, Idris thought, that while the tumulus 
had retained the true Norse name of the Viking, his de- 
scendants, the Ravengars, should have remembered him 
only by his Latinized name of Draco. This explained 
why Ormfell had never suggested itself to them as the 
tomb of their ancestor. In forgetting that he was like- 
wise called Orm, they had unwittingly deprived them- 
selves of an indication as to the place of the buried 
treasure. 

Idris’ musings were brought to an end by Lorelie’s ris- 
ing to take her departure, which caused him to murmur 
something about the sadness of parting. 

“ But if there were no parting there would never be the 
sweetness of meeting,” was her reply. 

Was this no more than a pretty saying on her part ; 
or did she really look forward with pleasure to their next 
meeting ? 

Emboldened by her words he raised her hand to his 
lips before she was aware of his intention. 

“ Mr. Breakspear, you must not do that,” she said in a 
trembling voice, and hastily withdrawing her hand from 
his. Her face was pale : a strange look came into her 
eyes, and she turned and hurried away. Idris, trembling 
lest he should have given offence, watched her till she 
was out of sight, and then went slowly back to Wave 
Crest. 

Verily he was a fortunate fellow ! Fresh from a charm- 
ing tete-a-tete with one fair lady he was now to have the 
like with a second : for, on passing through the garden- 
gate, he saw Beatrice Ravengar reading in a low chair 
beneath the apple-trees — Beatrice, the sea-king’s daugh- 
ter, the descendant of that very Viking whose bones re- 
posed in Ormfell ! 

Her heart beat more quickly as Idris approached. He, 
189 


The Viking’s Skull 

little divining the cause of the colour that played so en- 
chantingly over her cheek, thought Godfrey’s sister a 
very pretty maiden indeed. True, she lacked the dark 
starry beauty of Lorelie — Idris’ tastes ran in favour of 
brunettes — yet there was a subtle witchery in Beatrice’s 
soft grey eyes and winsome expression ; in her sunny 
hair : and in her graceful figure, set off as it then was, by 
a dainty dress of soft muslin. 

“ My name, being Breakspear,” said he, with mock 
sternness, as he took a seat beside her, you will not be 
surprised to learn that I have a lance to break with 
you.” 

And what have I done that is amiss ? ” asked Beatrice, 
outwardly smiling, but inwardly uneasy : for some secret 
feeling told her that he had just left the presence of 
Mademoiselle Riviere, and she feared lest that lady should 
have said something to prejudice her in the eyes of Idris. 
A fair return, for had not she herself let fall in Idris’ pres- 
ence words unfriendly to Lorelie ? 

You have committed the sin of omission in not tell- 
ing me that the armorial shield of the Ravengars is dec- 
orated with a silver ring.” 

I am aware that a ring figures in their coat of arms,” 
said Beatrice, with wide, wondering eyes, “ but where is 
my fault in not telling you of it? Surely,” she added, 
with a sudden intuition as to his meaning, surely you do 
not mean to say that there is some connection between 
your runic ring and the Ravengar device ? ” 

Idris’ reply was to repeat the story he had just 
heard. 

This is all new to me,” said Beatrice, when he had 
finished, but then I never was a Ravengar. I am the 
daughter of my mother, and have taken little, if any, in- 
terest in the genealogy and family traditions of my an- 
cestors, the belted earls.” 


190 


The Legend of the Runic Ring 

“ You should now look with more favour on the Viking’s 
skull as being that of your great forefather. His object 
in coming down the staircase last night was evidently to 
introduce himself to you, his youngest descendant. — 
But I have interrupted your reading, for which I beg par- 
don. May I ask the title of your book ? ” 

“ Longfellow’s * Saga of King Olaf! You have read 
it?” 

“ No : but a Norse saga in verse is, by its very nature, 
certain to interest me. Will you not read aloud. Miss 
Ravengar ? ” 

There is little Beatrice would not have done to please 
Idris, and accordingly she began the reading of the poem. 
Her voice was clear and silvery, and marked at times by 
a cadence, plaintive and pretty. Idris would have fared 
ill had he been required to give a summary of the poem, 
for he paid little attention to the words, finding a greater 
charm in the face and voice of the reader. More than 
once the thought stole over him that if he had not seen 
Mademoiselle Riviere his love might have found its rest- 
ing-place in Beatrice. 

Reading smoothly onward Beatrice came to the scene 
in which the reluctant bride Gudrun, on her wedding- 
night, draws near to the couch of Olaf, dagger in hand 
and murder in her heart. 

« ‘ What is that,’ King Olaf said, 

* Gleams so bright above thy head ? 

Wherefore standest thou so white 
In pale moonlight ? ’ 

« • ’Tis the bodkin that I wear 
When at night I bind my hair.’ ” 

Beatrice paused. “ Bodkin ? ” she said. “ That’s not 
the right word. Ladies don’t fasten their hair with bod- 
kins.” 


The Viking's Skull 

Poets do not speak with the precision of grammarians. 
I suppose he should have said hairpin." 

“ Did they use hairpins in those days, then ? " 

“ Without a doubt," replied Idris, being a little hazy 
on the point, nevertheless. 

“ Gudrun must have worn a very large hairpin, if she 
could liken a dagger to it." 

“ I suppose it was not very unlike the stiletto con- 
trivances worn by ladies of the present day," answered 
Idris. 


« ‘ ’Tis the bodkin that I wear 
When at night I bind my hair.* ’* 

repeated Beatrice. At night? Did she wear it in her 
hair while sleeping?" 

“ I never knew the lady," laughed Idris, so I am un- 
able to answer. Why shouldn’t she ? " 

“ Because during sleep she might turn her head upon 
the point and receive an unpleasant stab." 

You speak from experience ? " 

“ An experience as recent only as last night." 

** We must leave Gudrun’s bodkin suspended in mid- 
air while you tell me how this happened." 

“ There is really nothing to tell. When I went to bed 
I forgot to remove the stiletto from my hair. Somehow, 
I was unable to sleep last night." 

You were thinking of the skull, perhaps ? " 

Yes, it must have been that," replied Beatrice, col- 
ouring at this prevarication, for had she spoken truly, 
she must have told him that was the cause of her un- 
rest. 

“ And so," she continued, ** while I was tossing from 
side to side, the stiletto must have got loose, and in turn- 
ing my head on the pillow I received a stab from the 
point of it. Nothing to speak of, a mere scalp wound." 
192 


The Legend of the Runic Ring 

“ It was well the point was not forced into your brain. 
I have heard of fatal accidents resulting from the use of 
these stiletto-pins. You discarded it at once?” 

Of course.” 

“ Forever? ” 

“ O, no. Only till the morning,” replied Beatrice de- 
murely. 

** What ? You have not let it serve as a warning ? O, 
Miss Ravengar, Miss Ravengar ! what is this I see shim- 
mering in your hair at the present moment?” 

“ A proof of feminine vanity, for it is of no real use, 
being merely an ornament.” 

“ May I inspect the savage weapon that might have 
ended your existence, and may yet, since you decline to 
learn wisdom from experience ? ” 

Beatrice drew forth the hairpin. It was shaped like a 
dagger, the steel being slender, rounded, and tapering to 
a point : the hilt of gold set with brilliants. 

As soon as Idris saw it he stared at it as if mesmerized, 
the tapering point of the slender steel was so strangely 
suggestive of the metal fragment that had fallen from the 
Viking’s skull. He took it from his pocket and held it 
out to her. 

« Miss Ravengar, what should you say this is ? ” 

“ That?” replied Beatrice. That is a part of a hair- 
pin. See ! ” 

She laid it upon her open palm beside her own stiletto. 
The terminal of the latter corresponded exactly in form 
and colour with the broken fragment: at least, the differ- 
ence, if difference there were, was imperceptible by the 
naked eye. 

“ It certainly looks like a hairpin.” 

“ Looks like it, do you say ? ” said Beatrice, with a 
sort of reproach in her tone. It Is,** she asseverated 
firmly. 


*3 


193 


The Viking’s Skull 

What reason have you for this opinion other than 
mere resemblance ? ** asked Idris, a little surprised by her 
air of certitude. 

“ I do not reason upon it. I kno2V it is a hairpin," she 
replied, with a peculiar emphasis upon the “ know." 

There was a strangeness in her manner, an entire re- 
versal of her former self : her face seemed hallowed by a 
light like the inspired expression of a sibyl. The ex- 
pression was momentary only, dying as soon as born, 
but it left Idris curiously impressed. 

“ Hilda the Alruna may have looked like that, when 
delivering her oracles," he thought. 

“ Why do you value this piece of steel ? " asked 
Beatrice, as she restored it to him. 

“ This little piece of steel, Miss Ravengar, is nothing 
less than the instrument that gave your ancestor Orm his 
coup-de-grace. It dropped out of the skull last night. 
For the future my motto must be, ‘ When in doubt, con- 
sult Miss Ravengar.’ By your wit I was enabled to dis- 
cover the secret entrance to Ormfell; and now, when 
wondering of what this steel fragment once formed part, 
you come to my aid again by reading a poem concern- 
ing a Norse lady, whose intended action towards her 
husband seems almost to have a direct bearing upon the 
Viking’s skull. Our Norse forefathers, you will remem- 
ber, were accustomed to regard their maidens as prophet- 
esses, whose opinions, when solemnly invoked, were to 
be received as oracles. I will imitate their example, and 
accept your dictum that this is a fragment of a lady's 
hairpin." 

Godfrey, who had joined the pair a few minutes pre- 
viously, and had stood a silent listener of the conversa- 
tion, now intervened with a remark. 

“ Well, then, you must admit," said he, that this 
opinion clashes with the story told by the tapestry, which 
194 


The Legend of the Runic Ring 

tapestry avers that Orm died with a cloth-yard shaft 
sticking in him.” 

** The two ideas are not irreconcilable,” argued Idris. 

My belief is that we have here,” holding up the piece 
of steel, “ a silent testimony to a domestic tragedy of a 
thousand years ago. Old Orm the Viking was carried 
from the battle-field wounded by an arrow. His wife 
Hilda was perhaps enamoured of some other warrior: 
and so, while affecting to nurse her husband, she may 
have hastened his end by secretly driving her strong hair- 
pin into his head, a feat she could perform with compara- 
tive safety to herself, there being no coroner’s inquest in 
those days. His death would be attributed to the arrow- 
wound, and therefore is so represented on the tapestry.” 

“ If your inference be right,” said Beatrice, it is a 
strange verification of the old saying, * Murder will out.’ 
Fancy the crime coming to light after the lapse of a 
thousand years ! Though it is not very kind of you, 
Mr. Breakspear,” she added, with a mock pout, “ to at- 
tempt to prove that my ancestress Hilda was a murder- 
ess. You will be saying next that a taste for assassination 
is one of our family traits, and that the homicidal microbe 
runs in my blood.” 

‘‘ The lapse of ten centuries will have effectually elimi- 
nated it.” 

“ Merci ! ” she returned, dropping him a mock curtsey. 
“ Yes : it is consoling to reflect that this little piece of 
family scandal is removed from us by the space of a full 
millennium.” 

“ But Idris is altogether wrong in his theory,” re- 
marked Godfrey decisively. “ This piece of steel is not 
ancient at all.” 

“ Ay, ay, destroyer of my romance ! ” returned Idris. 
“ Can you give me satisfactory proof that it is not 
ancient ? ” 


195 


The Viking’s Skull 

“ I think so : if you will let me do what I like with it/' 

Idris shook his head. 

“ I value this fragment,” he explained, “ believing in 
its antiquity. You would not willingly destroy the bullet 
that killed Nelson, nor will I consent to destroy the 
weapon that slew my Viking.” 

“ But if I could clearly demonstrate to you that it is a 
modern piece of steel — what then ? ” 

“ In that case it would lose its chief value in my eyes, 
and it would prove, among other things, that the skull is 
not Orm’s : for if this steel be modern, so likewise must 
be the skull. But how are you going to prove its 
modernity ? Are not iron and steel alike in all ages ? Is 
the steel that was wrought on the anvil of the Norse 
armourer different from the steel forged to-day in the 
foundries of Sheffield ? ” 

“ Yes, in some respects. I want to conduct a chemical 
experiment with this relic, an experiment which will 
necessitate its destruction. Still, if I succeed in demon- 
strating its modernity you will not object?” 

** Far from it. But are you likely to demonstrate 
it?” 

“ Well, of course, I am open to failure. My opinion 
rests upon a certain assumption, which assumption, if cor- 
rect, will conclusively show that this steel was forged 
within modern times. Nous verronsJ* 


196 


CHAPTER XII 


IDRIS DECLARES HIS LOVE 

H OW long should a man have known a woman 
before venturing upon a proposal of love? 
Such was the question now occupying the 
mind of Idris. 

He had seen Mademoiselle Riviere three times only : 
he had not spent above seven hours in her presence : yet 
had they been seven hundred instead of seven he knew 
that his feeling for her would be no stronger at the end 
of that time than at the beginning. The moon might 
have its period of crescent and wane : not so his love : its 
circle was full and complete from the first moment of his 
setting eyes upon her. 

She was now the sole object of his thoughts. All 
other matters : the quest for his father, the problem of 
the Viking’s skull, were relegated to the dim and distant 
future; what were they compared with the winning of 
Lorelie ? 

He found himself continually dwelling upon her man- 
ner towards him at the moment of their last parting. He 
was uncertain whether she was startled only, or vexed, by 
his act of gallantry ; whether he must draw hope or de- 
spair from that event ; and he knew not which was the 
wiser course — to declare his love at once, or to defer the 
proposal till he had gained a greater hold upon her affec- 
tions. A too premature avowal might be disastrous : on 
the other hand to be dilatory might lead to his being 
forestalled by Viscount Walden. 

This latter argument prevailed with him, and he re- 
197 


The Viking’s Skull 

solved to see Lorelie at once, and take the momentous 
step of giving utterance to his feelings. Even rejection 
was preferable to the state of suspense in which he was 
now living. 

On presenting himself at The Cedars he was told by 
the maid who opened the door that her mistress was out. 
Where had she gone? The maid was not certain, but 
she fancied that “ Ma’amzelle ” had said something about 
spending the afternoon in Ravenhall Park. 

Accordingly Idris betook himself to this park, a large 
extent of which was open to the public : and after a short 
search he found Lorelie seated within a charming recess 
formed by dark rocks overhung with blossoming foliage. 
She was holding in her hand a small writing-pad, upon 
which lay some sheets of manuscript that she was appar- 
ently correcting and annotating with a pencil, doubtless 
putting some emendatory touches to her drama. The 
Fatal Skull. 

The place, though picturesque, was hardly the ideal 
spot for his love-avowal, since it was within sight of the 
majestic towers of Ravenhall, which, in Idris' opinion, 
offered a very powerful argument in favour of Lord Wal- 
den’s suit. 

On seeing Idris Lorelie at once made way for him on 
the seat beside her, the glad light in her eyes showing 
that he was far from being an unwelcome visitor. 

Though Idris had set out in bold spirit, yet now, faced 
by opportunity, he began to' realize that the task required 
more courage than he was master of: and for a long 
time he talked of other matters, or rather he let Lorelie 
carry on the conversation, finding it easier to be a listener 
than a speaker. 

And Lorelie could talk : charmingly, and upon many 
topics that are supposed to be the peculiar province of 
tlie masculine mind. She had never seemed so bright 
198 


Idris Declares His Love 

and interesting as on this present occasion. How sweet 
and silvery her laugh ! How pretty the curve of her lips, 
and how glowing their colour ! Supposing he were to 
stoop suddenly and kiss them ? Would not such an act 
be tantamount to a love-avowal, and thus relieve him 
from the difficulty of an oral confession ? 

Lorelie, observant at last of Idris’ quiet manner, rallied 
him on his want of spirits. 

‘‘ You seem very grave to-day, Mr. Breakspear?” 

“ Do I, mademoiselle ? I am thinking.” 

“ May I share your thoughts ? ” 

“ Y ou may share my life if you will.’* 

“ Mr. Breakspear, what are you saying ? ” exclaimed 
Lorelie, quickly, breathlessly. 

“ That I love you. Is that a fault ? Nay, rather, it 
would be a fault not to love you.” 

Lorelie drew a deep shuddering breath. Their eyes 
met : a strange wistful tenderness in hers. Such a look 
Idris had never before received from woman : he knew 
what it meant, and grew giddy at the thought that he had 
the power to evoke it. 

Then, in a moment, all was changed ! 

A priestess, starting in agony from the Delphic tripod, 
could not have exhibited a wilder mien than did Lorelie 
at that moment as she rose to her feet, her hands pressed 
to her bosom as if to repress the emotion struggling 
there : in her eyes an expression of horror, the startled 
guilty look of one who, tempted to listen to wrong, is 
suddenly recalled to a sense of duty. 

Idris had wanted to say more, to speak of the depth of 
his love, but that look chilled all the warmth of his feel- 
ings, and checked the words that were rising to his lips. 

Mr. Breakspear,” she began, with a strange ** catch ” 
in her voice, you saved my life from the sea, and it may 
be that gratitude has led me to — to — how shall I ex- 
199 


The Viking’s Skull 

press myself? — to be too warm in my friendship. I 
have not guarded myself sufficiently. If there has been 
anything in my manner or words calculated to impress 
you with the belief that your addresses would be accept- 
able to me, I beg — I entreat — of you to forgive me. 
Such utterance — such action — on my part has been un- 
intentional. I cannot listen to you.” 

With many women a “No” may sometimes mean 
“ Yes,” but this was not the case with Lorelie Riviere. 
Idris felt that her decision was final, irrevocable. And 
yet what was the meaning of that first look of rapture 
that had come into her eyes ? 

“You do well to refuse me, mademoiselle : to refuse 
in truth any suitor, for who indeed is worthy of you, 
but ” 

“ Mr. Breakspear, for pity’s sake be silent. See ! ” 

She drew something from her dress-pocket, turned 
aside for a moment, and then held out the third finger of 
her left hand. And at the sight Idris, strong man though 
he was, staggered as a man may stagger on hearing his 
death sentence. 

“ Great heaven ! You are not married ? ” he said 
hoarsely. 

“ Ten months ago. Secretly. At Nice.” 

To — to ?” 

But he knew the name before she pronounced it. 

“ To Lord Walden — yes.” 

The earth that afternoon was roofed with a sky of 
deep delicious azure : the soft breeze rippled the leaves 
of the woodland, and at each breath the air became alive 
with the white blossoms of the trees. Nothing could be 
sweeter or fairer than this summer day, but its charm 
was not for Idris. With the knowledge that Lorelie could 
never be his, there passed away a glory from the earth. 

Mechanically he turned his eyes towards Ravenhall, 
200 


Idris Declares His Love 


Lorelie followed the direction of his glance. Through a 
vista in the trees they could see the castellated pile, set 
with mullioned casements, and fronted with ivied terraces 
ascended by stately flights of stone steps. She knew — 
and bitter was the knowledge — that Idris was thinking 
that there was the prize for which she had sold herself. 

He wronged her, however, by this thought. 

When Lorelie, eighteen months before, had listened to 
the vows of Viscount Walden she had honestly believed 
herself to be in love with him. Idris’ avowal had shown 
her the hollowness of that belief. Vivid as fire on a dark 
night there suddenly flashed upon her trembling mind 
the overwhelming revelation that her feeling for her hus- 
band was as nothing compared with her feeling for Idris. 
If all the happiness she had previously known had been 
suddenly sublimated and concentrated into one single 
intense sensation of a moment’s duration it would not 
have equalled the rapture evoked by Idris’ avowal. But 
in a moment the feeling had gone, giving place to the 
dull lethargy of despair. Though realizing but too 
plainly that she had married the wrong man, the knowl- 
edge of the fact did not diminish the loyalty due to her 
husband. Faithful she would ever remain, but it was not 
her fault if the love that she could henceforth give him 
would be scarcely deserving of the name. 

She would have died rather than have given utterance 
to this confession, but Idris had read the secret in her 
eyes : she knew that he had read it, and the knowledge 
added to her confusion and made her unable to meet his 
glance. 

There was a long silence between them. What was 
there to talk about ? Their mutual love ? That was of 
necessity a forbidden subject ; and to talk of anything 
less than this seemed a mockery of the deep feelings 
within them. 


201 


The Viking's Skull 

Parted from Lorelie by adverse fortune what remained 
for Idris but to face the situation bravely ? 

“ Mademoiselle," he said, using from habit the title that 
was no longer hers, “ I take my leave. Forgive me, if 
my words have caused you pain. Farewell." 

** But not forever. We may meet from time to time 
as — as friends." 

Did she not realize that such friendship might be 
perilous? No: and as Idris gazed upon her clear 
eyes he saw there a spirit too pure to suffer itself to 
do wrong. 

** You must forget," she faltered, ** that you have ever 
entertained this — this feeling for me." 

Idris smiled bitterly. He knew — she knew — that it 
was the one event in their lives they never would forget. 

At their last parting he had kissed her hand : he did 
not venture even to touch it now, but, lifting his hat, he 
quietly withdrew. 

With tears in her eyes Lorelie watched him till he was 
lost to view. 

“ If you knew the truth," she murmured, ** your feeling 
for me would not be love but hatred." 

In melancholy mood Idris returned to Wave Crest. 
Beatrice, quick to interpret his looks, guessed what had 
happened : and though the result was such as she herself 
desired, yet the sight of his dejection touched her to the 
quick and filled her with a mixed feeling of pity and 
anger. Who, forsooth, was Mademoiselle Riviere that 
she should treat Idris’ love as of no account ? 

Aware that Lorelie was not favourably regarded by 
Beatrice Idris had prudently refrained from making the 
latter a confidante of his love-affair, but now, sitting down 
beside her, he proceeded to tell her all. 

But when Beatrice heard the amazing news that Lorelie 
Riviere was in reality Viscountess Walden, and therefore 
202 


Idris Declares His Love 

her cousin by marriage, a look not merely of wonder but 
of dismay stole over her face. 

“ Have you proof of this ? ” she asked breathlessly. 

“ Proof of what ? ” exclaimed Godfrey, entering the 
room at this juncture. 

“ That Mademoiselle Riviere is Ivar’s wife,” she 
replied. 

“ Well, I did not ask her to produce her marriage 
certificate,” said Idris, somewhat vexed that Lorelie’s 
word should be doubted. “ For the truth of her words 
I had better refer you to your cousin, Lord Walden him- 
self. We see now the cause of his surliness the other 
night. Any fellow with so lovely a wife might be 
jealous on learning that she had spent five hours in a 
lonely cave tete-a-tete with a stranger.” 

“ He might, nevertheless, have had the grace to give 
you a few words of thanks for saving her life,” remarked 
Godfrey. “ I suppose it is from fear of his father that he 
keeps the marriage a secret ? ” 

“ Presumably.” 

« Hum ! rather hazardous to bring her so near to 
Ravenhall,” said Godfrey. 

And she is really married?” murmured Beatrice. 
“ O, how I have wronged her ! ” 

In what way ? ” asked Godfrey. Come, Trixie, let 
us learn the reason of your past aversion.” 

It was some time before Beatrice could be induced to 
reply. 

« You remember the case of old Gideon ? ” she said at 
last. 

** Perfectly,” replied Godfrey, adding for Idris’ enlight- 
enment, ** he was an old farmer at the point of death. I 
was unable to procure a nurse, and Trixie generously 
offered her services. The poor fellow died at midnight ; 
and Trixie, though pressed to remain, left the place and 
203 


The Viking’s Skull 

came walking home all by herself, reaching here at two 
in the morning. But what has this to do with Madem- 
oiselle Riviere — I beg her pardon, Lady Walden ? ” 

On my way home,” replied Beatrice, “ I had to pass 
her villa, and whom should I see walking up the garden- 
path towards the house but Ivar himself ! He had not 
noticed me, and I did not make myself known to him : 
in truth I was so much amazed that I could do nothing 
but stand silent under the shadow of the trees, watching, 
or, if you will, playing the spy, I saw him open the 
door of the villa with a key of his own, and go in. Not 
knowing that he was married to Mademoiselle Riviere, 
what conclusion could I come to but that — that ” 

And here Beatrice paused, leaving her hearers to guess 
the nature of her conclusion. 

‘‘And you thought that of Mademoiselle Rividre?” 
said Idris : and Beatrice felt keenly the reproach in his 
tone. 

“ I have never whispered my suspicion to any one — 
not even to you, Godfrey.” 

“ The sequel shows the advantage of holding one’s 
tongue,” replied her brother. “ It has saved you from 
having to make a humiliating apology to the new vis- 
countess. Well, seeing that she is now your cousin, you 
cannot do better than acknowledge the relationship by 
making a call upon her.” 

But Beatrice shrank from this ordeal* 

“ I have always shown her by my manner that I dis- 
like her. She must think me an odious creature.” 

“ On the contrary,” replied Idris, “ whenever your 
name has been mentioned she has spoken well of you, 
and has expressed herself as desirous of your friend- 
ship.” 

Beatrice was finally persuaded into promising that she 
would pay the new viscountess a visit on the morrow : 

204 


Idris Declares His Love 

after which, Godfrey, turning to Idris, addressed himself 
to a new theme. 

“ I spent this morning," he said, in my laboratory 
over that piece of steel taken from your so-called Vik- 
ing’s skull, and I have discovered it to be of modern 
fabrication." 

“ Ah ! and how do you prove it ? " said Idris, prepar- 
ing to argue the point. 

“ Chemical analysis shows that the steel contains two 
per cent, of platinum." 

“ What of that ? " said Idris bluntly. 

“ Much. Platinum is a metal of modern discovery, 
first hit on in the year — well, I forget the exact date, 
some time about the beginning of the eighteenth century. 
Therefore, any steel that is combined with platinum must 
have been forged within the past two hundred years, and 
consequently cannot be a relic of Norse days." 

“ For what purpose is platinum mixed with the 
steel?" 

“ To impart additional hardness." 

“ I must accept your dictum as final. Of course the 
conclusion is that if the steel be modern, the skull must 
be modern, too. I must give up my belief. Miss Raven- 
gar, that I possess the skull of your Viking ancestor. 
But then," he went on, “ Orm was buried within that 
hillock : the pictured tapestry and the name Ormfell 
prove it. What, then, has become of his remains ? " 
Crumbled to dust, perhaps, with the lapse of time," 
suggested Beatrice. 

‘‘ The existence of the tapestry confutes you. Solid 
bone would not crumble, if a woollen fabric will endure." 

“ True," replied Beatrice, with a puzzled look. ** I am 
forgetting the tapestry. Here’s a mystery, indeed ! 
What has become of the Viking’s bones ? " 

<< If the skeleton within the tumulus be that of a 
205 


The Viking’s Skull 

modern person,” said Idris, how on earth came it 
there ? Who buried him, and ” 

“ We do not yet know that it is a * him,’ ” interjected 
Godfrey. “ The skeleton may be the remains of a 
woman.” 

“ I speak provisionally. Who buried him, or her, and 
why should such a strange grave be chosen ? ” 

“ Because,” replied the surgeon, gravely, because, my 
dear Idris, cannot you see that the present occupant of 
Ormfell did not die a natural death ? The piece of steel 
lodged in the brain proves that. He was murdered, 
murdered with a stiletto hairpin : and he, or they, that 
did the deed, knowing, as we know, that Ormfell contains 
a grave-chamber, disposed of the victim’s body by plac- 
ing it within the hillock, no doubt thinking that the 
remains, if ever discovered, would be taken for those of 
some ancient warrior, an error into which we ourselves 
would have fallen had not that tapestry remained, I 
might say, providentially remained, to tell us otherwise.” 

For a few moments both Beatrice and Idris sat dumb- 
founded at this startling theory. 

“ By heaven ! I believe you are right,” cried Idris. 
“ And yet this murder-theory of yours is open to objec- 
tion. There is the difficulty of conveying a dead body 
to Ormfell. Consider the risk of detection that the 
murderer would run.” 

** The murder may have taken place within Ormfell 
itself,” suggested Beatrice. 

“ That is my view,” replied Godfrey, “ for there are 
signs which seem to point to that conclusion.” 

What signs are they? ” asked Idris. 

You will perhaps think my first reason fanciful,” re- 
plied Godfrey. « You have continually maintained,’* he 
went on, addressing Idris, that the divining rod took a 
downward bend at a certain point in the mortuary cham- 
206 


CHAPTER XIII 


AT LORELIE’s villa 

O N the following day Beatrice Ravengar, with 
some misgivings, set out for the purpose of 
making an afternoon call upon Mademoiselle 
Riviere, or, to use her rightful title. Viscountess 
Walden. 

Idris accompanied her, nominally as her escort, in 
reality consumed with the longing to meet Lorelie again. 
True wisdom told him that he was but tormenting him- 
self in thus seeing her, that the better way was to avoid 
her altogether : but he found this latter course impossible : 
he despised himself for his weakness, yet as the moth is 
attracted by the light so was Idris attracted by the 
fascinating personality of Viscountess Walden. 

On arriving at The Cedars Beatrice was received in a 
manner so gracious and winning that her misgivings 
were immediately put to flight. 

“We are cousins, you and I,” said Lorelie, kissing her 
affectionately, “ and must ever be good friends.” 

Beatrice, quick to read character, could tell that the 
other was realy desirous of her friendship : and as she 
recalled her unjust suspicion she felt full of a guilty 
shame, and was almost tempted to fall upon her knees, 
confess her fault, and beg for pardon. 

Aware of the circumstances under which Lorelie and 
Idris had last parted, Beatrice viewed their greeting of 
each other with an interest that was almost painful to 
her, and the viscountess knowing that she was watched, 
extended to Idris the dignified courtesy that she might 
H 209 


The Viking’s Skull 

have extended to a stranger, though all the time she was 
inwardly tormented lest Idris should think her unduly 
cold. None but herself knew how her heart was pulsat- 
ing beneath her calm exterior. She was not to be 
blamed, she argued, for the feeling that had sprung up 
self-originated within her breast. Action and tongue 
may be controlled: thought never. So long, then, as 
she controlled her words and action, what more was re- 
quired of her ? What more ? A secret voice seemed 
to say, Never to see Idris again ! ” 

They sat on the veranda conversing on various topics, 
and as Beatrice listened to the charming words and the 
sweet laugh of the viscountess, and contemplated her 
brilliant beauty, she no longer wondered that Idris should 
have fallen in love with her. 

During the course of the conversation some details of 
Lorelie’s history became revealed. 

She was now twenty-three years of age, and had been 
born at Nantes in the same year in which her father. 
Captain Rochefort, had aided Eric Marville to escape 
from the Breton prison. Her father she had never 
known, nor had he ever been seen again by Madame 
Rochefort after his flight in the yacht Nemesis. 

When Lorelie was sixteen years of age her mother 
died, leaving to her an income sufficient with economy 
for her maintenance. Henceforward she had led a soli- 
tary independent life, content with her books and music. 
In her twenty-first year she met Lord Walden at 
Monaco. 

They were married privately, and while the earl sup- 
posed his son to be carrying on the course of study 
requisite for the diplomatic profession, that son was in 
reality quietly celebrating his honeymoon on the Riviera. 

After a few months of wedded life Lorelie suddenly 
conceived the purpose of visiting Ormsby, though her 
210 


At Lorelie’s Villa 


husband was opposed to the idea. By preconcerted ar- 
rangement she took up her residence at The Cedars, 
some weeks prior to Ivar’s home-coming, lest their coin- 
cident arrival should give rise to suspicion. 

And here she remained, concealing her rightful name 
and rank in compliance with Ivar’s wish, and waiting till 
a favourable opportunity should arrive for making the 
marriage known to the stern old earl. 

Secret contempt stole over Idris at the course pursued 
by the viscount. A man might be very well content to 
brave his father’s anger and the loss of an estate, how- 
ever splendid, for such a wife as Lorelie. By some 
subtle process of telepathy his thoughts communicated 
themselves to her, and knowing that he would not have 
hesitated at such sacrifice, the viscountess trembled and 
durst not meet his glance, lest he should read in her eyes 
more than he ought. Contrary to the proverb the third 
person on this occasion was not de trop. Lorelie felt 
grateful for the presence of Beatrice, and clung to her as 
to a protecting angel. 

May I add one to this pleasant trio ? ” said a new 
voice, breaking in upon them : and, looking up, Idris 
caught the suspicious glance of the man whom he was 
striving not to hate — Lorelie’s husband ! 

Lord Walden coldly acknowledged Idris’ presence, 
smiled at Beatrice, and still keeping up the pretence of 
being merely a personal friend of Lorelie’s, was address- 
ing her as “ Mademoiselle Riviere,” when Beatrice inter- 
vened with, Why disguise the truth. Cousin Ivar ? We 
know that there is no Mademoiselle Riviere now.” 

“ Ah ! then that makes it much more pleasant for all 
concerned.” 

But though he spoke thus, there was on his face a look 
that showed he was not over-pleased to learn that the 
truth had become known. 


2II 


The Viking's Skull 

** You may rely upon our secrecy/' added Beatrice, 
thinking to put him at his ease. 

“ I trust so,” replied Ivar, coldly. 

He took a seat beside Lorelie, and proceeded to roll a 
cigarette, remarking as he did so, “ You do not object? ” 

Lorelie assented with a smile that evoked the jealousy 
of the foolish Idris. If a woman may not smile upon her 
husband, upon whom may she smile ? 

Concluding that he and Beatrice were better away, 
Idris now arose, but Lorelie opposed their departure. 

“ Going after so short a stay ? ” she remonstrated. 
“ Now you are here you must remain for the evening, 
and — and Mr. Breakspear as well,” she added, glancing 
at Idris. 

Her manner was so persuasive that the two visitors 
lacked courage to refuse the invitation. Thinking, how- 
ever, that the viscount and his wife might wish to ex- 
change confidences, Idris offered his arm to Beatrice and 
invited her to a stroll through the grounds that sur- 
rounded the villa. 

As Beatrice withdrew leaning on the arm of Idris and 
blushing at some compliment of his, Lorelie glanced after 
them with a touch of envy in her eyes. Her days for 
receiving such attentions were over : her husband had 
ceased to be her lover. She could not avoid contrasting 
the appearance of the two men — Ivar's pallid face and 
languid air with Idris’ healthful bronzed complexion and 
splendid physique. There was a difference of ten years 
in their ages : and though Ivar was scarcely past twenty, 
his face bore signs of dissipation — signs which his wife 
perceived with surprise and sorrow. 

No sooner were Idris and Beatrice out of earshot than 
Ivar turned a frowning countenance upon his wife. 

“ Why have you told them of our marriage ? ” 

** It was necessary, Ivar.” 


At Lorelie’s Villa 


As she recalled the occasion of its disclosure a faint 
colour tinged her cheek ; and Ivar, though not usually a 
quick-witted person, immediately suspected the cause. 

** Necessitated by that fellow's making love to you, I 
presume ? ” he said, eyeing her keenly. 

** Ivar,” she answered quietly, evading his question, 
“ so long as men think me free ” 

“ Free ! that's a good word.” 

“ So long as I am supposed to be unmarried,” she con- 
tinued, correcting her expression, “ so long shall I be 
liable to receive attentions from other men. You can 
easily remedy this by making our marriage known.” 

“ O, harping on that string again,” said Ivar impa- 
tiently. “ It’s out of the question — at present. The 
governor would never forgive me for marrying a woman 
of no family, especially,” he added, with something like 
a sneer, “ especially a woman who admits that there is a 
shadow on her name.” 

There was a flash of resentment in the eyes that were 
turned suddenly upon him. 

“ You can bear me witness it was before our marriage 
and not after that I confessed to having a secret.” 

** You would not tell me its nature.” 

“ No : nor ever shall,” replied Lorelie, with a hardening 
of her features. ** You were willing to take me as I was, 
and to ask no questions as to my past. You promised 
never to refer to my secret. But — how often have you 
reproached me with it ? ” 

Ivar smoked on in moody silence. It was true he had 
given no thought to her secret in his first glow of passion. 
A slave to sensuality he had married Lorelie for her 
beauty, not knowing who or whence she was, ignorant 
even that her true name was Rochefort. Now that her 
beauty was beginning to pall upon him, a fact he took 
little pains to disguise, this secret that darkened her past 

213 


The Viking’s Skull 

began to trouble him. What answer w'as he to give to 
the editors of “ Debrett ” and Burke,” when interrogated 
as to his wife’s family ? 

“ Ivar,” Lorelie continued earnestly, “ your visits here 
are beginning to be noticed. My character is becoming 
exposed to suspicions. You will let the world know that 
I am your wife, will you not ? ” 

No true man could have resisted the appealing glance 
of her eyes, the pleading tone of her soft voice ; but Ivar, 
being no true man, was proof against both. 

“ Impossible, at present,” he frowned. ** I have raised 
you from comparative poverty to affluence ; I have sur- 
rounded you with luxury, and, by heaven ! you little 
know at what cost, and at what risk to myself ! I have 
made you my wife : be content with that. You will be a 
countess some day; think of your future triumph over 
those who slight you now. If people talk, you must put 
up with it, or go away from Ormsby. It was against my 
wish that you came here. But your vanity is such that 
you must feast your eyes daily upon your future heritage 
of Ravenhall.” 

It was neither the desire to see the Ravengar lands, 
nor the wish even to be near you, that drew me to 
Ormsby, but a very different motive.” 

“ In the devil’s name, what motive ? ” said Ivar, elevat- 
ing his eyebrows in surprise. 

It is a part of the secret of my life. But, being here, 
here I remain. And, Ivar, I must be acknowledged,” she 
added firmly. 

“ Of course : you are burning to exhibit yourself as 
Viscountess Walden ; to shine in ancestral diamonds ; to 
reign at Ravenhall ; to be queen of the county-side ; to 
be courted and admired at fetes and balls.” 

“ No, Ivar, no ; I care nothing for these things, but 
much for the name of wife. To think that I must plead 
214 


At Lorelie’s Villa 


with my own husband to redeem my name from reproach ! 
What have you to fear from your father’s anger ? As you 
are his legitimate and only son he cannot deprive you of 
the title, even if he would ; as to the Ravengar estate, that 
is entailed, and must therefore descend to you. Of what, 
then, are you afraid ? ” 

“ It is true that the original estate, the estate of the first 
earl, is entailed ; but since his day the Ravengar lands have 
more than doubled. These later acquisitions the governor 
can dispose of as he will. If I offend him he may make 
them over to some one else, to Beatrice for example, since 
she is a great favourite of his.” 

“ That’s a temptation with me to reveal our mar- 
riage,” said Lorelie with a smile. “ One half of the 
Ravengar estate would form a pretty dowry for her and 
Mr. Breakspear.” 

“ Her and Breakspear ? ” Ivar repeated. “ Is it your 
wish, then, that he should marry Beatrice ? That fellow 
may have saved your life,” he added darkly, “ but it 
doesn’t follow that you must seek to reward him with the 
hand of my cousin.” 

“ Events are shaping themselves that way,” Lorelie 
remarked quietly, with a glance at the distant Beatrice, 
who was laughing gaily while Idris bent over her. 
“ And really it can be no concern of yours whom she 
marries.” 

“ She is a Ravengar,” replied Ivar, loftily. ** There is 
the family name to be considered. Pray, who is this in- 
solent Breakspear, that first makes love to you, and now 
aspires to Beatrice ? ” 

“ Mr. Idris Breakspear ” began Lorelie, and then 

she stopped, surprised at the look upon Ivar’s face. 

** Idris ! ” said the viscount quickly. “ Is his name 
Idris ? ” 

“ Yes, why ?” 


215 


The Viking’s Skull 

“ O, nothing. It’s an uncommon name, that’s all.” 
With a half-laugh, he added, more to himself than to 
Lorelie : ** Idris Breakspear. Humph ! Now if it were 
Idris Marville!” 

It was now Lorelie’s turn to be surprised. Till this 
moment she had been unaware that the name of Idris 
Marville was known to her husband. 

“ But, Ivar,” she answered quietly, Marville, and not 
Breakspear, happens to be his true name.” 

Lord Walden stopped short in his smoking, took the 
cigarette from his lips, and stared open-mouthed at Lorelie 
with a look very much like fear upon his face. 

“ What do you say ? ” he muttered hoarsely. “ Idris 
Marville. But, bah ! ” he continued, an expression of 
relief clearing his features : “ that can't be the fellow I 
have in mind. My Idris Marville died at Paris seven 
years ago.” 

‘‘ And so did he — in the newspapers. For a reason 
of his own he let the world think that he had perished in 
a hotel-fire.” 

At this statement Ivar’s agitation became extreme. 
The cigarette dropped from his fingers ; his face became 
livid. 

Why should his being alive trouble you ? ” asked 
Lorelie, looking in wonder at her husband. 

For some moments Ivar hesitated, and when at last his 
answer came, Lorelie intuitively felt that he was not stat- 
ing the true cause of his disquietude. 

** You would marry that fellow to Beatrice ?” he said, 
moistening his dry white lips. “ Why he is the son of a 
— a — felon: his father was tried for murder at Nantes, 
and found guilty.” 

** Have you made a point of studying the bygone 
criminal trials of France ? If not, how have you learned 
this?” 


216 


At Lorelie’s Villa 


I heard the story from — from my father/' replied 
Ivar slowly, as if reluctant to make the admission. 

At this Lorelie gave a very palpable start. A curious 
light came into her eyes. She seemed as if struck by 
some new and surprising idea. 

“ And how came he to learn it ? ” 

He was in Brittany at the time of the trial, and could 
not avoid hearing all about it. The crime created, as 
newspapers say, a great sensation. For weeks the people 
of Nantes talked of little else.” 

Your father’s ten years’ absence from Ravenhall was 
spent in Brittany, then ? ” 

A portion of the time,” replied Ivar, evidently un- 
easy under his wife’s catechism. 

“ And so this murder-trial,” observed Lorelie, with a 
thoughtful air, this trial which took place so far back as 
twenty-seven years ago — that is before you and I were 
born — has formed a topic of conversation between your- 
self and your father. What necessity led him to talk of 
the matter to you ? ” 

But Ivar waived this question by asking one. 

“ What has brought that fellow to Ormsby?” he said, 
nodding his head in the direction of Idris. 

“ He is trying to discover his father ; for he believes, 
rightly or wrongly, that Eric Marville is still alive. He 
has traced him to this neighbourhood,” she added, her 
eyes attentive to every variation in Ivar’s counten- 
ance. 

“ And here he may end his quest,” said the viscount, 
« for Eric Marville was shipwrecked off this coast and 
drowned many years ago. At least, that is my father’s 
statement,” he added in some confusion, and looking like 
a man who has been unwittingly betrayed into a rash 
statement. 

<< What was the name of the vessel in which Eric Mar- 
217 


The Viking’s Skull 

ville went down ? ” asked Lorelie, speaking as if she had 
never before heard of it. 

“ The — The Idris]' returned the viscount, giving the 
name with obvious reluctance. 

There was on Lorelie’s face a smile that somehow 
made Ivar feel as if he had walked into a net prepared 
for him. 

“ And how long ago is it since this vessel was 
wrecked ? ” 

“ Twenty-two years ago." 

‘‘ Twenty-two years ago," murmured Lorelie, with the 
air of one making a mental calculation, “ will take us 
back to 1876." 

October the thirteenth, 1876, if you wish for the ex- 
act date." 

“ And was it not on this same night of October the 
thirteenth, 1876, that your father the earl walked into 
Ravenhall after a mysterious absence of ten years ? " 

“ What of that ? " 

O nothing ! Mere coincidence, of course. And 
so," continued Lorelie, with a retrospective air, and so 
the foundering of the yacht Idris is another of the little 
matters about which your father has conversed with you. 
Strange that a peer of the realm should take such inter- 
est in the fate of an escaped felon ! " She paused, as if 
expecting Ivar to make some reply, but he did not speak. 
“ Well," she went on, I will make the confession that 
I, too, take an interest — a strong interest — in this Eric 
Marville ; nay, I will go so far as to say that to discover 
what ultimately became of him is one of the objects 
that has led me to Ormsby. And in pursuance of this 
object I have had the good fortune to obtain from its 
present editor a copy of The Ormsby Weekly Times, dated 
October 20th, 1876, in which paper there is given an ac- 
count both of the foundering of the yacht and also of 
218 


At Lorelie’s Villa 


the inquest upon the bodies that were washed ashore. 
Now, as the coroner was unable to ascertain either the 
name of the vessel, or the names of any of the men 
aboard, is it not a little curious that the earl should know 
that the yacht was called Idris^ and that it carried on 
board one Eric Marville ? How comes your father to 
know more than could be elicited in the coroner’s 
court ? ” 

** Egad, you’d better ask him,” returned Ivar sullenly. 

“ Well, I must controvert your father on one point. 
Eric Marville was not drowned. I have proof that he 
was on shore at the time the yacht sank.” 

The viscount was obviously startled by this statement. 

“ Oh ! then what became of him ? ” 

“ Have I not said that I am trying to find out ? ” 

“ You’ve got a difficult task before you. No one has 
heard of him since the night of the wreck.” 

“No one has heard of him by the name Marville, of 
course. He would not be likely to adhere to a name 
that would suggest reminiscences of the felon from Vala- 
genet. He perhaps resumed his old family name.” 

“ His old family name,” repeated Ivar. “ What is 
your reason for supposing that Marville was not his true 
name ? ” 

“ Because it does not appear among the list of names 
in the peerage.” 

“ The peerage ? ” 

“ Do you not know that Marville claimed to be a peer 
of the realm ? ” 

The viscount smiled, but it was obvious that he was ill 
at ease. 

“ Felon in Brittany ; peer in Britain. A likely story 
that ! Odd that the detectives and journalists did not 
discover the fact at the time of his trial.” 

“ It is odd, as you say, Ivar. He certainly kept his 
219 


The Viking's Skull 

secret well. I do not think he revealed it even to his 
wife.” 

« Which proves his lack of a coronet. It is not likely 
that he would conceal from his wife the fact that he was 
heir to a peerage.” 

“ He doubtless had his reasons. Having perhaps quar- 
relied with his family he may have left England forever, 
determined to begin life anew in another land, and to 
hide his identity under an assumed name. An imperial 
archduke of Austria has done the like in our time, and so 
successfully, too, as to baffle all endeavours to trace him.” 

And, pray, to what peerage did this Marville lay 
claim ? ” 

“ I do not know.” 

“ Dormant, or in esse f ” 

“ I do not know.” 

“ What was its rank ? A baronage : a viscbuntship : 


“ I do not know.” 

Ivar seemed rather pleased than otherwise with Lorelie’s 
want of knowledge. 

Where, when, and under what circumstances, then, 
did Eric Marville claim to be a peer ? ” 

“ So far as I am aware he referred to it but once, and 
then to no more than one person, a French military 
officer, now dead. * I am heir to a peerage and could 
take my rank to-morrow, if I chose,' were his words.” 

“ And that's all the evidence you have ? ” 

** All the evidence I have, Ivar.” 

Marville was boasting, beyond a doubt. Does that 
fellow,” he continued, glancing at Idris' distant figure, 
** know of his father's claim to a peerage ? ” 

** He has not the least inkling of it.” 

You'll act wisely by keeping the notion out of his 
pate.” 


220 


At Lorelie’s Villa 


“ Why so ? " 

** It’s one thing to claim a peerage, but quite another 
thing to prove one’s claim. Why fill the fellow with 
false hopes ? Be guided by me, and refrain from telling 
him of his father’s pretensions.” 

“ Very well, Ivar,” responded Lorelie, quietly, ** I will 
be guided by you. As your wife it is my duty to do 
nothing to the detriment of your future interests.” 

For a moment the two stared curiously at each other. 

“ My interests ? ” muttered the viscount. “ I don’t un- 
derstand you.” 

“ I think you do,” she said gravely. But,” she added, 
rising to her feet, I am neglecting my visitors,” and so 
saying she moved off in the direction of Idris and Bea- 
trice, who were slowly pacing to and fro on one side of 
the lawn. 

“ Not even the coronet to console me now ! ” she mur- 
mured darkly. ** A fitting punishment this for my long 
and guilty silence! Justice, justice, now thy scourge is 
coming upon me I ” 

Ivar did not follow his wife, but sat motionless for some 
moments, staring after her in blank dismay, and com- 
pletely confounded by the startling hints that she had 
let fall. 

“ Idris Marville not dead,” he muttered, removing with 
his handkerchief the cold moisture that glistened on his 
forehead. That fellow he I Living here at Ormsby — 
in the same house with Beatrice ! And Lorelie suspects I 
Suspects? She knows. By God! supposing she tells 
him ! But, bah ! she will not — she dare not — declare 
it ; she stands to lose too much.” He recalled her words 
to the effect that she would do nothing detrimental to his 
interests. The meaning of this assurance was obvious, 
and Ivar breathed more freely. “ She’ll keep the secret 
for her own sake. She’ll not be so mad as to cut her own 


221 


The Viking’s Skull 

throat. In marrying her Fve stopped her mouth. But 
if she had known as much a year ago as she knows to- 
day !” 

The smile had returned to Lorelie’s lips by the time 
she reached Idris and Beatrice, and at her invitation they 
repaired to the drawing-room. Lord Walden, with a 
black feeling of hatred in his heart against both his wife 
and Idris, slowly followed without speaking, and flung 
himself on a distant ottoman as if desiring no compan- 
ionship but his own. 

Idris, thus ignored by the viscount, could but ignore 
him in turn. He had never beheld a more sullen and a 
more ungracious clown than Lorelie’s husband, and he 
much regretted that he had not followed his first impulse 
to depart. 

The drawing-room was a handsome apartment, con- 
taining many evidences of taste and wealth. Lorelie 
took a pride in pointing out her treasures. 

** My father,” she remarked, observing Beatrice’s eyes 
set upon a portrait in oils representing a handsome man 
in the uniform of a French military officer. 

Idris viewed with interest the likeness of the man who 
for about the space of a minute had flashed across his 
childhood’s days. 

A man who will ever command my respect,” he mur- 
mured, “ since in rescuing my father from prison he was 
forced by that act to become an exile from his native 
land.” 

An expression of pain passed over Lorelie’s face. 

Mr. Breakspear, you do not know what you are 
saying.” 

“ Forgive me. I promised never to allude to that 
event, and I am breaking my word. I apologize.” 

And he wondered, as he had often wondered, why ref- 
erence to this matter should trouble her. She had no 
222 


At Lorelie’s Villa 


cause to be ashamed of her father’s deed. Captain Roche- 
fort’s act in favour of a friend whom he believed to be 
innocent was, from Idris’ point of view, a gallant and 
romantic enterprise, and in the judgment of most per- 
sons would deserve condonation, if not approval. 

After the portrait of Captain Rochefort, what most 
interested Beatrice was an antique vase standing upon the 
carved mantel. It was of gold, set with precious stones, 
and the interior was concealed from view by a tight- 
fitting lid. 

“ What a pretty vase ! ” she said, and with Lorelie’s 
sanction she lifted it from the mantel. As she did so a 
cold tremor passed over her. She placed the urn upon 
the table, and in a moment the feeling was gone. 
She took up the vase again, and the unpleasant sensa- 
tion returned. Was this due to something exhaled from 
the interior of the urn ? She drew a deep breath through 
her nostrils, but failed to detect any odour. 

Puzzled and annoyed, Beatrice became morbidly curi- 
ous to learn its contents. 

The lid fits very tightly,” she said, addressing Lorelie. 
“ How do you remove it ? ” 

It is secured by a hidden spring,” replied the vis- 
countess. If you can discover the secret, you will be 
doing me a favour, for I have never been able to open it 
myself.” 

“ Then you do not know what treasure it may contain,” 
smiled Beatrice. “Attar of roses, spices from Arabia, 
pearls from the Orient, may lurk within.” She shook 
the urn, and a faint sound accompanied the movement. 
“ Listen ! there is certainly something inside.” 

“ I am full of curiosity myself to know what it is,” said 
Lorelie, “ I have spent hours in trying to discover the 
spring.” 

“ Then it is useless for me to try.” 

223 


The Viking’s Skull 

But though Beatrice spoke thus, she nevertheless made 
the attempt, toying with the vase and pressing various 
figures sculptured upon the sides. All to no purpose. 
The jewels sparkled like wicked eyes, seeming to mock 
her endeavours. The sound caused by the shaking of 
the urn was like the collision of paper pellets, shavings of 
wood, or of some other substance equally light. And 
all the time while handling the vase Beatrice was con- 
scious of a strange feeling of repulsion. What caused it 
she could not tell: the fact was certain: the reason 
inexplicable. 

« Is this vase an heirloom ? she asked, desirous of 
learning whence Lorelie had obtained it, and yet not 
liking to appear too curious. 

The viscountess hesitated a moment, evidently adverse 
to replying, and then stooped over Beatrice and kissed 
her. 

“ Will you think me discourteous, Beatrice, if — if I do 
not tell you how I came by it ? " 

While speaking she glanced aside at Ivar who, from 
his position on the couch, was watching the scene, with 
so perturbed an air that Idris was led to believe there 
was some strange secret connected with this vase ^ a 
secret known to both husband and wife. Great as was 
his love for Lorelie, Idris was compelled to admit that 
she was very mysterious in some of her ways. 

Then a strange thing happened. 

Idris, keenly attentive to all that was passing, observed 
a curious expression stealing over Beatrice's face. Once 
before he had seen this expression, namely, at the time 
when she gave her opinion on the piece of steel taken 
from the Viking’s skull. The pupils of her eyes were 
contracted, and set with a bright fixity of gaze upon the 
jewelled urn. The rigidity of her figure indicated a 
cataleptic state. 


224 


At Lorelie’s Villa 

Her lips parted, and in a voice strangely unlike her 
own, she said : — 

“ The ashes of the dead ! ” 

At this Lorelie gave a faint cry and drew away the 
vase, glancing again at Ivar. Then, with her hands she 
closed the eyes of Beatrice, and shook her gently. Bea- 
trice opened her eyes again, and looked around with the 
surprised air of one aroused suddenly from sleep. 

“ Do you know what you have been saying ? ” Lorelie 
asked. 

No — what ? ’* 

“ That this is a funereal urn.” 

Have I been self-hypnotized again ? ” 

** Again ? ” repeated Lorelie. “ Do you often fall into 
this state ? ” 

“ Occasionally — when gazing too long at some bright 
object : and then the object seems to whisper its history 
to me, or rather, as Godfrey more sensibly remarks, my 
mind begins to weave all kinds of fancies around it.” 

** Why, you must be a clairvoyante,” said Lorelie, 
studying the other intently. ** * The ashes of the dead ? ’ 
Yes, this may be a crematory vase. What do you say, 
Ivar ? ” she added, turning to the viscount. 

“ Of course Beatrice knows,” was his reply, « for is she 
not a daughter of the gods, a descendant of a Norse 
prophetess ? But, Beatrice, I think that the blood of 
Hilda the Alruna must have become so diluted during 
the course of ten centuries that your claim to the hered- 
itary gift of intuition is a little laughable.” 

“ I am not aware of having made any such claim,” 
replied Beatrice, quietly. 

And such claim, if made, would be justified,” re- 
torted Idris, roused by Lord Walden's sneering air, « for 
Miss Ravengar has given me previous proof of possessing 
remarkable intuitive powers.” 

15 225 


The Viking’s Skull 

“ Let us say no more on the matter/’ said Lorelie, 
gently. 

She restored the urn to its place on the mantelpiece, 
and, desirous of removing the somewhat unpleasant im- 
pression created by the incident, immediately started a 
conversation on other topics. 

The talk turned presently upon literature, and Idris, 
remembering that Lorelie was an author, said : — 

Lady Walden, will you not give us a reading from 
your play ? ” 

“ O, yes, do ! ” cried Beatrice, impulsively. 

Lorelie hesitated. The drama written by her had been 
a work of time and patience : it was as near perfection as 
she would ever be able to bring it : she had poured her nob- 
lest feelings into the work. But she knew that what 
seems good to the author often seems bad to the critic : 
that the thoughts, supposed to be original, prove to be 
merely echoes of what others have said before in far bet- 
ter language : that the line that separates eloquence from 
bombast is easily passable on the wrong side. 

These were the motives disposing Lorelie to keep her 
tragedy to herself. The person who should have been 
the first to give encouragement on this occasion was 
mute ; for Ivar maintained an air of indifference. 

“ Deserves kicking,” was Idris’ secret comment, as he 
became conscious of a suggestion of humiliation in Lore- 
lie’s manner, due to her husband’s want of appreciation. 

And,” he added to himself, ‘‘ I should very much like to 
do the kicking.” 

Moved at last by the solicitations of her two visitors 
Lorelie produced the manuscript of her play and pre- 
pared to read some portions of it. 

“ This drama of mine, * The Fatal Skully ” she began, 

derives its name from the central incident in it — an in- 
cident of early Italian history. Alboin, King of the Lom- 
226 


At Lorelie’s Villa 


bards, had become enamoured of Rosamond, the beauti- 
ful daughter of Cunimund, King of the Gepids. Both 
father and daughter, however, rejected the suit, for Lom- 
bards and Gepids had long been at feud. Embassies hav- 
ing failed, Alboin resolved to attain his object by force, 
and, accordingly, entered the territories of Cunimund 
with an army. In the battle that followed, the Gepid 
king was slain, his forces put to the rout, and his daughter 
Rosamond became the prize and the reluctant bride of the 
conqueror Alboin.” 

“ How dreadful,” murmured Beatrice, “ to be compelled 
to marry the man who had slain her father ! ” 

“ The sequel is more dreadful,” returned Lorelie. 
“ The death of Cunimund was not sufficient to satiate the 
hatred of Alboin ; the skull of the fallen king, fashioned 
into a drinking cup, became the most treasured ornament 
of his sideboard. 

“ Feasting one day with his companions-in-arms, Al- 
boin called for the skull of Cunimund. ‘ The cup of vic- 
tory ’ — to quote the words of Gibbon — ‘ was accepted 
with horrid applause by the circle of the Lombard chiefs* 
‘‘ Fill it again with wine,” exclaimed the inhuman con- 
queror, “ fill it to the brim ; carry this goblet to the queen, 
and request in my name that she would rejoice with her 
father.” In an agony of grief and rage, Rosamond had 
strength to utter, “ Let the will of my lord be obeyed,” 
and, touching it with her lips, pronounced a silent impre- 
cation that the insult should be washed away in the blood 
of Alboin.' ” 

** And did she kill her husband ? ” asked Beatrice. 

Yes, with the help of his armour-bearer Helmichis.” 

Having thus set forth the argument, Lorelie, unfolding 
her manuscript, began to read certain scenes from her 
play. The reading of them was a revelation both to Idris 
and Beatrice : there was a masculine vigour in the lines : 
227 


The Viking’s Skull 

the thoughts were as noble as they were original, and 
graced by many poetic images and by passages of ex- 
quisite beauty. 

Charmed by the melody of Lorelie’s voice, charmed 
still more by the lovely face set in a frame of dark hair, 
Idris sat entranced, with something more than admiration 
in his eyes. And as Beatrice observed his rapt attitude, 
his accelerated breathing, she trembled uneasily ; not for 
herself, but for Lorelie. In the near future, when the 
young viscountess should have come to learn the 
worthlessness of her husband, and to experience the 
misery of existence with him, would she have sufficient 
strength and purity of soul to resist the temptation of fly- 
ing to the arms of Idris ? Their meeting with each other 
was a foolish playing with fire, and could have but one 
ending. Beatrice ceased to listen to the reading of the 
play, and grew miserable with her own thoughts. 

“ Lady Walden,” said Idris, when she had finished her 
recital, “ your drama is a work of real genius.” 

His praise was sweeter to Lorelie than the praise of a 
thousand other critics, and her cheek flushed with tri- 
umph. 

You certainly ought to have it put upon the stage,” 
he continued. 

“ Yes,” chimed in Ivar : for even his sullen nature had 
been moved to admiration : you must not hide your 
light under a bushel. If one is a genius, let the world 
know it.” 

“ If this play should ever be acted,” said Lorelie, then 
let me take the chief part in it. Who more fit to play tlie 
role of Rosamond than the creator of Rosamond ? ” 

Well, whenever you desire to begin rehearsals,” said 
Idris, jocularly, “ Miss Ravengar can supply you with 
one item of stage property in the shape of a real 
skull.” 


228 


At Lorelie’s Villa 

“ But you would not drink from a real skull ? ” said 
Beatrice. 

“ It would add to the effect/’ smiled Lorelie. 

“ Drink from a real skull ? Ah, how horrid ! ” ex- 
claimed Beatrice. 

In reciting the words of the wronged and indignant 
Queen, Lorelie had caught the genuine spirit of the char- 
acter : and now, inspired by the idea of becoming its ex- 
ponent upon the stage, she rose to her feet, her eyes 
sparkling as with the light of future triumph. 

As she stood upon the hearth in statuesque pose, she 
seemed to be the very queen of tragedy, to be breathing, 
as it were, the air of vengeance ; a spirit so contrary to 
her usual sweet self that Idris did not like to witness its 
assumption, however suitable it may have been to the 
character of the fierce Rosamond. 

“ I can see the eyes of the theatre riveted upon me,” 
she murmured, picturing to herself the future representa- 
tion of her drama, “ as I enter the banqueting-hall of the 
Lombard chiefs, and advance to drink from the fatal cup ! 
How the audience will thrill as they watch ! How awful 
the silence as Rosamond places her lips to her father’s 
skull ! ” 

She illustrated her words by taking the antique vase 
from the mantel and going through the action of drink- 
ing from it, shuddering as she did so ; though whether 
her shudder was mere simulation, or a real thing occa- 
sioned by the supposed nature of its contents was more 
than Idris could tell. 

“ And when the hour for vengeance came, I would 
rise to the height of the occasion, and strike down 
Alboin — so 

Drawing from her hair a long and gleaming hairpin 
shaped like a stiletto, she went through the motion of 
stabbing an imaginary figure. 

229 


« ( 


The Viking’s Skull 

Die!”’ she exclaimed, in an exultant tone, and 
quoting the words of her play. “ ‘ This Rosamond 
sends.’ ” 

There was a weird roll of her glittering eyes as she 
flung out her left hand tightly clenched : a swiftness and 
ferocity in the downward stroke of the stiletto in her 
right, so suggestive of real murder that Idris glanced at her 
feet, almost expecting to see a human figure lying there. 

Beatrice gave a cry of genuine terror. Ivar looked on 
with evident admiration. 

For a few seconds Lorelie maintained a rigid bending 
pose, her eyes dilated with terror, staring at the hearth 
as if she beheld something there. Then, with a motion 
startling in its suddenness, she recovered her erect atti- 
tude, and reeled backward with her lifted hand clenched 
upon her brow. The stiletto dropped from her limp 
fingers, and the peculiar ringing sound produced by its 
contact with the tiled hearth was fresh in Idris’ ears for 
many days afterwards. 

“ ‘ A-a-ah ! ’ ” she cried in a long-drawn thrilling sibi- 
lant whisper, which, nevertheless, penetrated to every 
corner of the apartment, and again quoting from her 
play. ‘ Ah ! He moves ! His eyes open ! That look 
of reproach ! I dare not,’ ” she went on, gasping for 
breath, “ * I dare not strike again I Helmichis, do thou 
strike for me.’ ” 

With averted face she staggered back and dropped 
upon a couch, apparently exhausted by real or simulated 
emotion. 

‘‘Bravo! bravo!” cried Ivar, clapping his hands. 
“ The divine Sarah couldn’t do it better. By heaven ! 
we ought to have this play staged, with you in the role 
of Rosamond. You’d be the talk of London.” 

As for Idris, the diablerie of Lorelie’s manner had 
given him a sensation very much akin to horror. 

230 


At Lorelie’s Villa 


What have I been witnessing ? ” he murmured. “ A 
piece of acting merely, or a reminiscence of a real 
tragedy ? ” 

Beatrice, deadly white, and with her eyes closed, lay 
back upon an ottoman silent and motionless. 

“ What do you say ? ” said Lorelie, coming quickly 
forward in response to a remark from Idris. 

I think Miss Ravengar has fainted,” he repeated. 

“ Egad ! Lorelie,” said Ivar, amused. “ There’s a 
tribute to your acting, if you like.” 

Lady Walden instantly busied herself in applying 
restoratives to the swooning Beatrice. 

“ I am sorry to have frightened you,” she said in gentle 
tones to Beatrice when the latter had recovered. “ It 
was very, absurd of me to act so.” 

But Lorelie’s tenderness met with no response from 
Beatrice, whose eyes were full of a wild haunting horror. 
She shrank from Lorelie’s touch ; she avoided her glance ; 
her whole manner showed that she was anxious for noth- 
ing so much as to get away from her presence. 

** I — I think I’ll go home now,” she said, glancing at 
Idris. ** Godfrey will be waiting for us. We promised 
to return early.” 

“ The walk through the fresh air will do you good,” 
remarked Idris, who was himself desirous of withdrawing. 

It was in vain that Lorelie pressed her visitors to stay. 
Beatrice declared that she must go, and within the space 
of a few minutes she had taken a very abrupt leave of 
her hostess. 

That night Idris’ sleep was broken by troubled dreams, 
in all of which a woman’s image mingled, always in the 
act of striking down some shadowy foe ; but the venue 
was changed from the elegant apartment at The Cedars 
to the grey stone interior of Ormfell ! 

231 


CHAPTER XIV 


TOLD BY THE VASE 

N ext morning Idris strove to put aside the fear 
that had found expression in his dreams, but the 
dark idea would persist in forcing itself upon 
him. He grew angry with himself. Heavens ! was he 
not master of his own mind that he could not throw off 
this suspicion of the woman whom he loved ? Strange 
and mysterious Lorelie might be, but that she was a taker 
of human life he found it impossible to believe. 

Doubtless it was true that a murder had taken place 
within Ormfell, but that the crime had been wrought by 
a stiletto hairpin was merely a conjecture on the part of 
Beatrice, who had no valid reason to offer in support of 
her theory : yet, imbued with this fancy she was persist- 
ent in maintaining that a woman must have been the 
author of the deed. 

Assuming it, however, to be a fact that the piece of 
steel was a fragment of a hairpin, and the person who 
used it as an instrument of death a woman, it did not fol- 
low because Lorelie had drawn a stiletto pin from her 
hair in order to illustrate an assassination-scene in her 
play, that he must identify her with the guilty woman. 

There was not only no evidence to connect Lorelie 
with the crime, but much to prove the contrary. For 
instance, it requires a very long period of time before a 
human body will become reduced to the state of a 
skeleton such as that which Idris and Godfrey had found 
in the interior of the ancient tumulus. 

But Lorelie’s coming to Ormsby had taken place less 
232 


Told by the Vase 

than five months ago. Therefore, unless the remains had 
been brought from elsewhere, she could have had no 
hand in the crime. 

But had the remains been brought from elsewhere ? 
and was Godfrey wrong in limiting the scene of the 
murder to the interior of Ormfell ? With a sudden thrill 
of surprise and fear Idris recalled the reliquary brought 
to Ravenhall by Ivar on the night of his return from the 
continent. The story of the viscount’s midnight visit to 
the vault had been told him in confidence by Godfrey, 
and Idris therefore knew that this mysterious visit had 
some connection with Lorelie’s affairs. The meaning of 
it all had completely puzzled the two friends ; but now, 
while pondering over Ivar’s action, Idris felt a return of 
all his misgivings. 

Oblivious of the flight of time he remained on his 
pillow occupied in gloomy thought, and when at last he 
did get up and go down- stairs, he found that he must 
breakfast alone, for Beatrice was absent, having left a 
message with the maid to the effect that she had gone to 
The Cedars. 

The Cedars of all places ! How came it that Beatrice, 
after having evinced such fear of Lorelie on the previous 
evening, should repair thither the next morning ? Was 
it to tell Lorelie of her suspicions ? to warn her that the 
crime was known ? to put her on her guard ? 

Some such motive must have actuated her : so Idris, 
thinking that he could not do better than imitate her 
example, set off himself in the direction of The Cedars. 

On his arrival he learned from the maid who opened 
the door that Beatrice was in the drawing-room with 
Lorelie. 

<< Let me see them, please.” 

Without ascertaining whether his presence would be 
acceptable to her mistress, the girl ushered him into 

233 


The Viking’s Skull 

the drawing-room with the words, ** Mr. Breakspear, 
ma'amzelle,” and there left him. 

Idris looked around. No one was visible, but from 
the other side of the curtains that draped one end of the 
room came the sound of voices. The maid in introduc- 
ing him had pronounced his name so softly that ap- 
parently those behind the portiere were unaware of his 
presence. 

The two curtains forming the portiere not being closely 
drawn left an opening, through which Idris, as he went 
forward, caught a glimpse of a small boudoir. Both 
Lorelie and Beatrice were there. 

On the point of addressing them, he was suddenly 
stopped in his purpose by something odd in the appear- 
ance and attitude of each. 

Beatrice occupied a position at a low table, upon 
which stood the vase that had attracted her curiosity on 
the previous day, the vase containing “ the ashes of the 
dead.” 

She sat erect and silent, her hands resting on her lap, 
her face as rigid as if sculptured from marble: her 
attitude gave an impression that if pushed she would fall 
over like a dead weight. Her eyes were set upon the 
glittering vase with a curious far-off expression in them, 
as if observant of some scene a thousand miles away. 

Facing her a few paces off, with her eyes concentrating 
all their brightness and force upon Beatrice’s face, sat 
Lady Walden. It was clear at a glance that she held 
Beatrice’s mind and will completely under her own con- 
trol. 

As I live,” murmured Idris, << she has hypnotized 
Beatrice. She is going to conduct some experiment 
with the vase.” 

Having an honourable man’s aversion to play the spy 
he was about to make his presence known, when, sud- 

234 


Told by the Vase 

denly, checked by some motive for which he could not 
account, he determined to remain an unseen watcher. 

Lorelie rose and placed Beatrice's hands upon the 
yase, where they rested, passive and limp. This move- 
ment was accompanied by a shiver on the part of the 
medium. If the soul be capable of abstraction from the 
body, Idris might have believed that Beatrice’s soul had 
left her at that moment to animate the vase, for the urn 
seemed to become instinct with motion, and to sparkle 
with a new light. 

“ Speak, Beatrice,” said Lorelie in a solemn tone. 
“ Speak from the depth of this vase : listen to the voice 
of its quivering atoms : recall from it the scenes and 
sounds of the past. — Tell me, what do you feel — hear 
— see?” 

A hollow voice arose, a voice that sounded like a 
mockery of Beatrice’s tones: and although her lips 
moved, the words seemed to emanate, not from her, but 
from the urn. 

“ It is dark . . . very dark . . . nothing can 

be seen . . . No sun ... no stars . . . 
no light . . . All is cold . . . and damp . . . 
and still . . . There is no air . . . or wind 

. . . no life ... or motion ... It is like 

the grave . . . Above, beneath, on all sides, the 

earth presses . . . Always the earth around . . . 

nothing but earth . . . For ages and ages, deep 

down in the ground.” 

She repeated this last sentence several times. 

“ For ages and ages, deep down in the ground.” 

« What next ? ” asked Lorelie. 

“ A sound . . . faint . . . far-off . . . 

Now it comes nearer . . . it is as of a spade dig- 
ging . . . it is coming down . . . down 

. . . down . . . The earth above loosens . . . 

235 


The Viking’s Skull 

disappears . . . The blowing of fresh air . . . 

the gleam of daylight ... Now the blue sky looks 
down . . . Lifted up by strong hands to the glorious 
sunshine above ... It is the edge of a pit . . . 

Small pieces of gold mixed with earth lie about . . . 

It is spring-time . . . The air is full of the sound 

of falling waters . . . There are green hills around, 

dark here and there with pines and firs . . . Above 

them snow shining in the sun . . . There are men 

about . . . digging . . . men with deep blue 

eyes and flaxen hair . . . They wear close-fitting 

tunics . . . Their legs are bare, crossed by thongs 

of leather, . . . They talk a strange language 

. . . Now they stop digging . . . laugh . . . 

and drink mead from ox-horns.” 

Idris started, beginning to detect a glimmer of meaning 
in these utterances, hitherto as dark as a Delphic oracle. 

“ It is hot . . . very hot . . . There is a 

fire . . . flames playing in golden and ruddy hues 

on the rafters above . . . Many pieces of metal are 

stacked upon the shelves around . . . Shields, 

spears, swords, all newly -wrought, are lying about . . . 
The clangour of the anvil arises . . . The red sparks 

fly around . . . Men are moving to and fro, all 

busy . . . One is pouring molten metal into a clay 

mould ... It is liquid, glowing gold ... He 
is casting a vase . . . a funereal urn . . . this!'* 

Idris had heard something of the marvels of clairvoy- 
ance, but clairvoyance like this fairly took his breath 
away. It was clear that Beatrice was giving the whole 
history of the vase, from the time when the metal com- 
posing it first issued from the earth in the shape of ore in 
the old Norse fatherland ! 

“ It is a long, low, wooden hall. The lady is beauti- 
ful, with dark eyes and raven hair. There are some 
236 


Told by the Vase 

maidens around. They are at needlework. They have 
one long piece of cloth on their knees, and are sewing 
different coloured threads into it. The lady directs 
them. Now she moves towards the bed. There is some 
one lying on it, hidden by a bearskin. At the head is 
the golden vase. The lady lifts the coverlet. Beneath, 
there reposes a dead man, with yellow hair and beard. 
He lies upon his shield, his spear and sword beside him. 
The lady falls across the body weeping.” 

This scene was clear enough to Idris’ comprehension. 
The dark-haired lady was the ancestress of Beatrice her- 
self, Hilda the Alruna, mourning the death of her hus- 
band, Orm the Viking : and the maidens were the captive 
nuns who had wrought the figured tapestry that had 
decorated the interior of Ormfell. 

“ The maidens tremble as the stern-faced warriors 
enter the hall to carry away the body of their chief. He 
is borne aloft to the place of sepulture upon his brazen 
shield. The lady follows, clasping the urn to her 
bosom.” 

Beatrice paused for a moment, and then began another 
picture. 

“ The green hill-tomb rises high in sunny air, and 
close by murmurs the voice of the restless sea. The 
dead warrior is laid upon an altar of wood. Many per- 
sons stand around. A fair-haired boy touches the pile 
with a flaming torch. As he does so, a shout goes up to 
the sky.” 

Though Beatrice’s utterances were not marked by any 
rhythmic measure, she nevertheless began to intone them 
to an air, which Idris immediately recognized as the 
Ravengar Funeral March, the requiem that had made so 
strange an impression upon him when played by Lorelie 
upon the organ of St. Oswald’s Church. 

“ See the gleam of lifted lance and shield ! Hark to 

237 


The Viking’s Skull 

the wailing of the women, as they beat their breasts and 
rend their tresses for the death of their great chief! List 
to the warriors, as they clash their brazen bucklers with 
clanging sword-strokes ! Now rises the wild barbaric 
song of the long-haired scald, hymning to his harp the 
heroic deeds of the dead, and chanting the dirge that 
shall never be forgotten by the Raven-race. Upward 
mount the flames of the pyre. See how the maddened 
raven, tied to the fagot with silken thread, flaps his 
wings and screams with terror, pecking at the bond that 
holds him. The volumed smoke hides him from view : 
the fire severs the thread : now he soars heavenward, 
bearing the soul of the warrior to Valhalla. The fire 
burns long, glowing in the breath of the breeze. Now 
it fades : glimmers : and dies out. The lady draws near 
with the urn : within it are reverently placed the ashes 
of the dead.” 

Beatrice ceased her intonation, and continued in a 
quieter tone. 

“ It is a square place, built of stone. Men are moving 
about. Some carry torches. Others are decking the 
walls with tapestry, hanging it from a metal rod. There 
is a stone receptacle in the centre. The dark-haired 
lady places the urn within this, and retires. The lights 
vanish. All is silence and darkness — silence and dark- 
ness.” 

It was clear that Beatrice had been describing the in- 
cidents attending the death and burial of Orm. Her 
account had cleared up one mystery. The contents of 
the urn were nothing less than the ashes of the old 
Viking, the ancestral dust from which Beatrice herself 
had sprung ! This completely answered the question as 
to what had become of his remains, and furnished addi- 
tional proof that the skeleton in the sarcophagus was not 
that of Orm. 


238 


Told by the Vase 

But here a disquieting thought presented itself. Who 
had removed this urn from the tomb in Ormfell, and in 
what way had Lorelie become possessed of it ? He dis- 
missed the question for the moment in order to listen to 
Beatrice who was speaking again. 

“ Footsteps round about. Light shines through the 
interstices of the tomb. Some one is speaking. It is 
the dark-haired lady. There is a man with her. They 
take off the lid of the tomb and put in all kinds of bright 
things — coins and rings : gold and silver ingots : cups, 
lamps, precious stones, and the like. They sparkle in the 
light. The tomb is full. They lay the rest on the floor. 
N ow they steal away. The light goes with them. Silence 
and darkness again.” 

Thus far Beatrice’s monologue had dealt with a period 
of history distant by a thousand years, and had told Idris 
little that he did not already know. Would she continue 
the story of the urn through the succeeding centuries ? 
Would she reach modern times, and speak of those who 
had removed the treasure? would she describe the murder 
that had taken place, and tell how the urn came to be in 
Lorelie’s possession ? 

Spellbound he waited for the sequel. If any one 
had told him that the Viking’s treasure was lying upon 
the roadway outside to be his own for the mere trouble 
of walking thither, he would not have stirred from his 
position. 

Beatrice had been silent for some time, when Lorelie, 
speaking in the same tone of authority that she had used 
throughout, said : — 

What comes next ? ” 

** The dropping of moisture from the roof.” 

** What next ? ” 

“ Silence and darkness.” 

Idris began to think that he was doomed to disappoint- 

239 


The Viking’s Skull 

ment. Each scene described by Beatrice had been fol- 
lowed by an interval, sometimes long, sometimes short, 
apparently proportionate to the actual length of time that 
had elapsed between each event. How many minutes 
were to serve as a measure of the space that separated the 
age of Orm from the date of the removal of the treasure ? 
Not so many, he trusted, as to cause Lorelie to bring her 
experiment to a close. 

How much time is passing ? ” 

Centuries — long centuries — centuries of silence and 
darkness.” 

For a long time Beatrice continued to sit without 
speaking. At length, to Idris’ satisfaction, she resumed 
her monologue. 

A muffled noise like a spade digging. The falling of 
earth. Some one is going to enter.” 

“ Is this person the first to enter the hillock since the 
days of the dark-haired lady ? ” 

** The very first. — Cool air blows down the passage, 
filling the chamber with its freshness. It penetrates the 
chinks of the tomb.” 

“ Are there several men, or only one ? ” 

“ One only.” 

** What is he doing ? ” 

“ He waits a long time at the entrance. Now he 
comes forward along the passage. He carries a light : 
it gleams through the interstices of the tomb. He 
walks about, his feet striking against pieces of metal. 
He seems to be picking up some. Now, with a cry, he 
drops them. They ring on the hard earth. There 
are fresh footsteps coming along the passage. Coming 
quickly, too ! ” 

Beatrice's voice had lost some of its cold ring: she 
seemed to be less of an automaton and more of a living 
woman, capable of being moved by what she saw and 
240 


Told by the Vase 

heard. Idris did not fail to notice the change. It was 
an agreeable change, but ominous for his hopes. She 
seemed to be emerging from her trance : emerging, too, 
at a very significant point of the story. 

He noticed, too, that Lorelie’s interest had kept pace 
with his own : there was on her face a look of painful 
anxiety that had been entirely absent in the earlier stages 
of the experiment. 

“ A second man has entered the place. There is a 
silence. They seem to be standing still, looking at each 
other. Now they walk to and fro speaking.” 

“ What do they say ? ” 

“ Their voices are hushed ! Ha ! A sound like the 
tearing of cloth. The dull thud as of a body falling to 
the earth. A gasp, and all is still. The footsteps move 
about again. It seems as if only one man is there. He 
comes slowly forward and approaches the tomb. He 
places the light upon the floor. He is going to lift the 
lid. It is heavy. He can scarcely move it. He pushes 
it aside with his hands. Ah ! ” she exclaimed in a tone 
of disgust, “ ah ! his fingers are wet with blood. Some 
drops fall into the tomb. Oh ! ” she gasped in the voice 
of one who suddenly realizes an awful truth. “ Oh ! 
he is a murderer ! He has killed the other. He 
peers into the tomb. The lamp on the floor lights 
up his face. I can see the sparkle of his eyes. Oh ! it 
is ” 

In sheer horror Beatrice paused as if recognizing the 
visionary face. 

“What! You know him,” cried Lorelie, wildly: 
and to Idris’ mind there was as much horror in her 
voice as in that of Beatrice. “ You know him? Who 
is it ? ” 

Instead of replying Beatrice tried to lift her hands as 
though their removal from the vase would dissolve the 
i6 241 


The Viking’s Skull 

terrible vision. Lorelie came swiftly forward and stayed 
her action with an imperative gesture. 

Much as Idris felt the necessity for intervention, he 
refrained, for he was as eager for the name as Lorelie 
herself. 

“You recognize him? "cried Lorelie. “Who is it? 
His name ? Who has more right to know it than I ? 
Speak ! God of heaven. I’ll wrest the name from you, 

though you were dying No ! stop ! silence ! ’’ she 

suddenly exclaimed. “ Do not say the name." 

Eager to learn the secret Idris had been incautiously 
pressing against the silken portiere, and even in the 
midst of her agitation, Lorelie had seen the movement of 
the curtain. 

There was a moment’s silence, and then she cried : — 

“ Who is there ? ’’ 

“ A friend," replied Idris : and seeing that he was dis- 
covered he lifted the curtain and entered the recess. “ Let 
us have the name, and then ’’ 

“ It was honourable of you to play the spy ! " said 
Lorelie, coldly : and Idris could not help feeling that he 
deserved the reproach. 

“ Miss Ravengar," he said, stepping up to Beatrice and 
taking both her hands in his own : “ tell me whose face 
you see peering into the tomb." 

“ A face peering into the tomb ? I — I don’t under- 
stand." 

Beatrice’s voice had assumed its sweet natural ring. 
From her low seat she looked up at Idris with the light 
of gladness in her eyes at seeing him, a colour on her 
cheek at finding her hands clasped in his. 

For a moment he eyed her keenly, thinking that in or- 
der to shield the guilty person she was going to deny the 
recognition. Then the truth flashed upon him. She had 
emerged from her hypnotic trance. On detecting his 
242 


Told by the Vase 

presence the viscountess by some quick sleight of hand 
must have restored her to her normal state of mind. 

Beatrice’s wondering eyes showed that she was en- 
tirely ignorant of the story that had flowed from her 
lips. 

That story had accomplished one good end. She had 
spoken of the assassin as a man, and a weight was lifted 
from Idris’ mind. Thank heaven, Lorelie was not the 
author of the deed ! But a troubling thought remained. 
Was she a friend of the assassin, an accessory after the 
fact? If not, why was she so anxious to conceal his 
name ? 

A question or two on the part of Idris elicited the fact 
that it was Beatrice herself who had suggested the ex- 
periment with the vase. Lorelie, who was versed in the 
art of hypnotism, had readily assented, being as eager as 
Beatrice to learn its secret. 

And now that the experiment was over Beatrice looked 
from Lorelie to Idris, and from Idris to Lorelie, wonder- 
ing why each seemed so grave. 

“ What have I been saying ? ” she asked. 

Lorelie turned to Idris. “ How long have you been 
here ? ” 

** From the beginning of your experiment,” he an- 
swered. 

Then Beatrice shall learn the story from you.” 

“ But the story lacks completion. You left the experi- 
ment unfinished at its most interesting point. — Lady 
Walden,” continued Idris, gravely, ** you know now, if 
you did not know before, that a murder was committed 
within the interior of Ormfell. Justice requires that the 
murderer should be punished.” 

** Go on,” she murmured, as he paused. 

“ That urn,” he continued, pointing to the golden vase, 
** formed a part of the treasure that led to the crime. 
243 


The Viking’s Skull 

T 

Whoever gave you the urn was either the assassin, or 
obtained it through the agency of the assassin.” 

Idris paused again, and Lorelie herself uttered the 
question that was in his mind. 

And, therefore, you would learn the name of the 
giver ? ” 

Idris bowed. 

“ Mr. Breakspear, you ask too much.” 

“ You desire to shield a murderer?” 

That is nothing new — with me. I have been doing 
that for many years.” 

No look could be more mournful than that accompany- 
ing her words. 

‘‘ You will not give me the name that was trembling 
upon the lips of Miss Ravengar ? ” 

** I did not hear it,” replied Lorelie, evasively. 

** But you have formed a suspicion ? ” 

My suspicions might compromise the innocent, even 
as I myself have been compromised,” she added, with a 
reproachful glance at Beatrice. 

“ Forgive me,” murmured Beatrice, with drooping 
eyes. 

“ Are we not all liable to error ? ” said Lorelie, kissing 
her tenderly. “ I commend your frankness in coming to 
state your suspicions, painful though it was for me to lis- 
ten. No ; though fallen from what I might be, I have 
not yet stooped to murder.” And then, turning to Idris, 
she said : — 

** If I refuse your request I do so in order that I may 
not rashly accuse the innocent. When I have verified 
my suspicions, you shall know the truth : for, if I am not 
mistaken, no one will have more right to the knowledge 
than yourself. And then,” she added, with a melancholy 
smile, “ then it may be that you will find your desire for 
justice evaporating.” 


244 


CHAPTER XV 


A PACKET OF OLD LETTERS 

OR more than an hour after the departure of Idris 



and Beatrice, Lorelie remained where they had 


left her. She had sunk into a deep reverie, which, 
judged by the expression of her face, was of a painful 
character. 

“ Whence did Ivar obtain that vase ? ” she murmured. 
“ He has always refused to tell. ‘ Take it, and ask no 
questions,’ has always been his answer. ** ‘ That urn,’ ” 
she continued, repeating Idris’ words, ‘ formed a part of 
the treasure that led to a murder. Whoever gave you 
the urn was either the assassin, or obtained it through 
the agency of the assassin.’ Ivar gave it to me, but he 
was not the assassin. No ! the deed was wrought by the 
hand of one who escaped from the wreck of the Idris, 
Let me read those letters again in the light of the new 
knowledge acquired to-day.” 

She rose, and from a drawer in a cabinet took a packet 
of letters. 

“ What would Idris Breakspear give to read these ! ” 
she murmured. “ But the day is not far distant when I 
must put them into his hands ; and then,” she faltered, 
“ and then — how great will be his contempt for me ! ” 

Carrying the letters to the table she sat down and 
untied the thread that bound them. 

The first one was written in a woman’s hand ; and the 
envelope containing it bore the words, To my daughter 


Lorelie.” 


Madame Rochefort had, when dying, given this letter 


245 


The Viking’s Skull 

to Lorelie with the injunction that it was not to be read 
till after its writer had been laid in the grave. 

“ Dearest Lorelie/’ it ran, ** it may be that the disclosure 
contained in this letter will cause you to view the memory 
of your mother with feelings of shame, if not of con- 
tempt : but leave the judgment of my conduct, or, if you 
should so term it, my sin, to that higher tribunal before 
which I now stand, and be not too quick to condemn, 
since no woman can rightly judge me unless she herself 
has stood in a similar position to mine. 

“ You will surmise by these words that I have some 
strange confession to make, and such in truth is the case. 

“ You, my daughter, in common with the rest of the 
world, have hitherto regarded Eric Marville as a mur- 
derer, and your father, Noel Rochefort, as a man of stain- 
less honour. Learn now the truth that these opinions 
must be reversed : it was your father, and not Eric Mar- 
ville, that murdered Henri Duchesne. And for twenty 
years I have kept this guilty secret locked within my 
breast, shielding my husband’s reputation to the injury 
of another’s. 

Let me tell the tale, and that in as few words as pos- 
sible, for it is a melancholy reminiscence ; why should I 
linger over it ? 

I married your father in 1869. 

During the first year of our wedded life we lived at 
Nantes, your father’s regiment having been stationed there. 

“Our circle of friends included, besides others, the 
Englishman, Eric Marville ; and the Gascon, Henri 
Duchesne. The latter, some years before, had been a 
suitor for my hand ; and to my uneasiness I discovered 
that though he himself was now married, he had not 
abandoned his passion for me. I remained deaf to his 
advances. Thereupon his love turned to hatred, and, 
desirous of evoking my husband’s suspicion and jealousy, 
246 


A Packet of Old Letters 


he had the baseness to boast among his friends that he 
had found in me an easy conquest. Though full of secret 
fury your father hesitated to send a challenge, since 
Duchesne was deadly with pistol and sword : to face him 
in duel was to face certain death. 

“ Your father was a Corsican and took a Corsican’s 
way of avenging himself. 

“ One memorable summer night I was sitting alone in 
the upper room of our house, which overlooked the 
Place Graslin, awaiting the return of your father from the 
Armorique Club. The hour was late. All was quiet in 
the square below. I opened the window and looked out 
upon the moonlit night. A footstep upon the pavement 
attracted my attention, and stepping forwards I looked 
downwards over the rail of the veranda. Henri Duchesne 
was standing below : he looked up, saw me, and kissed 
his hand. At that moment, from the shadow of the 
doorway, there leaped a man whose fingers immediately 
twined themselves around Duchesne’s throat. Though 
taken by surprise he instantly recovered himself, and 
drew forth a dagger, the recent gift, as I afterwards 
learned, of Eric Marville. 

I tried to call for help, but found myself dumb with 
horror. Mutely I leaned against the rail of the veranda 
watching the silent and savage death-grapple taking place 
beneath my very feet. The dagger changed hands : a 
swift stroke, and Duchesne lay stretched upon the 
pavement. 

“ The whole affair did not last more than a minute. I 
recoiled from the veranda, cold and trembling. Though 
I had not seen his face I knew only too well who it was 
that had wrought the deed. 

I staggered to a sofa and fainted. 

“ When I awoke, your father was sitting beside me. 

‘ It was a dream,’ I murmured. 

247 


(( t 


The Viking’s Skull 

It was no dream, Therese, but reality, nor do I 
regret the deed. He sought your dishonour. He de- 
served to die. It was an act of justice.' 

“ < Let us fly from Nantes before you are discovered,' 
I said. 

“ ‘ Unwise ! Stationed here with my regiment, and 
living close to the scene of the deed, I dare not fly. 
Suspicion would fall upon me at once.’ 

“ Next day we heard that Eric Marville had been 
arrested for the murder. * Have no fear on his account,' 
said your father to me. * He did not commit the deed : 
how, then, can they prove that he did ? ’ The trial drew 
nigh, and to my dismay I learned that I, as being present 
in the house at the time of the murder, was cited to give 
evidence. Your father, anticipating every kind of ques- 
tion that could be put, instructed me what to say, and 
for many days continued drilling me in the answers I was 
to give. When the time came for me to take my place 
in court I stood up and swore an oath — heaven forgive 
the falsehood ! — that I was asleep at the time of the 
murder, and heard nothing whatever of the scuffle. 

“ The trial ended : the prisoner was found guilty, and 
condemned to the guillotine. Never shall I forget 
Madame Marville's cry of agony when the sentence was 
pronounced. How often in the dead of night have I 
started from sleep with that cry ringing in my ears ! 

** From the tribunal I returned home heart-broken by 
the black wickedness of which I had been guilty. If 
Marville died, what was I but his murderess ? 

‘ Noel,' I said, that same night, ‘ you will not let the 
innocent suffer ? ’ 

* What would you have me do ? ' was his reply. 
‘ Walk to the guillotine instead of him ? Upon my 
word, you are an affectionate wife ! ’ 

I shuddered, for he spoke truth. I could prove the 
248 


A Packet of Old Letters 

innocence of Eric Marville only at the price of Noel’s 
death. 

“ Was it for the wife to bring her husband to the 
guillotine ? 

“ How I preserved my reason at this time I do not 
know. It came somewhat as a relief to learn that Mar- 
ville’s sentence was changed to imprisonment for life. 

‘ If you may not prove his innocence/ I said, ‘ there 
is one thing you can do for him. Aid him to escape 
from prison to some far-off land, where he may live in 
happiness with his wife and child.’ 

“ ‘ Ah ! I might do that,’ your father replied. The no- 
tion seemed to appeal to his spirit of daring and adven- 
ture. ‘ That’s a devilish good idea of yours, Therese. 
There would be a dash of excitement in it ! Only/ he 
added, gloomily, stopping in his walk, ‘ it will mean the 
utter ruin of my career. It is whispered that the Minis- 
try intend to appoint me to the next Colonial Governor- 
ship. I should like to see the fellow free, but his rescue 
must be left to others. It cannot be done by me. I 
should have to escape with him, and become exiled from 
France forever. No ! no ! it’s impossible.’ 

“ But I would not let the idea sleep. I gave him no 
rest, continually urging him to the work of rescue, even 
threatening to reveal the truth in connection with the 
murder, till at last, wearied by my importunities, he ma- 
tured a plan for Marville’s rescue. The result you know. 
After an imprisonment of five years Eric Marville 
escaped from Valagenet Prison, and was hurried on board 
the yacht Nemesis that was waiting for him in Quilaix 
Bay. Your father went with him ; as a law-breaker he 
could not remain in France. I would have accompanied 
their flight, but the hour of your birth was drawing near. 
It had been arranged, therefore, that I should join them 
at a later date. Alas ! I never set eyes upon your father 
249 


The Viking’s Skull 

again. He corresponded with me at irregular intervals, 
but after a lapse of eighteen months his letters ceased. 
The yacht in which he was cruising from place to place 
foundered off the English coast, and I have no reason to 
believe that he escaped a watery grave. 

“If thus certain of his death, why, you may ask, did I 
not immmediately make known the truth concerning the 
murder ? 

“ Fear for myself, love for you, were the motives 
prompting me to concealment. 

“ I was an accessory after the fact, a perjurer likewise, 
and therefore amenable to the law. You were a babe of 
eighteen months, pretty and charming, the light of my 
life. To proclaim the truth meant imprisonment for me, 
separation from you ; and withal, disgrace upon our com- 
mon name. I could not bear the thought of this, and, 
therefore, deaf to the voice of justice, I continued to keep 
the truth hidden. 

“ But now, assured by the physician that I have not 
many days to live, I dare not die without making you 
the confidante of my guilty secret. 

“ This letter, signed with my name, together with your 
father’s correspondence, which is contained in my private 
desk, will afford sufficient evidence of the innocence of 
Eric Marville. 

“ To you, then, my daughter, I leave the duty of clear- 
ing the memory of an injured man, hoping that you will 
be brave enough to face the consequent ignominy which 
must forever rest upon our name. 

“ Therese Rochefort.’* 

Lorelie laid down the letter with a sigh. 

“ But I was not brave enough,” she murmured. 

Her father, Noel Rochefort, was credited with having 
destroyed a brilliant future by his chivalrous enterprise 
250 


A Packet of Old Letters 


of rescuing from prison a friend whom he deemed to be 
innocent : and, as the daughter of such, Lorelie, wher- 
ev^er she went, found herself an object of interest and 
sympathy, almost a heroine. Must she now proclaim 
that her father, the supposed hero, was in reality a mur- 
derer, and one, too, so base that in order to save his own 
neck he would have seen an innocent man, and his friend, 
go to the guillotine ? 

She was sixteen years of age at the time of her 
mother’s death, and lovely in face and figure ; her friends 
flattered her vanity by averring that with her beauty and 
accomplishments she might win the love of a nobleman, 
or even of a prince ! But what nobleman or prince 
would marry the daughter of a felon ? Therefore, she 
resolved to let the truth be hidden. If Eric Marville 
were still living he was free ; let him rejoice in that fact : 
if dead, her attestation of his innocence would do him no 
good. True, she knew that Marville had left a son, who 
must often have felt shame at the stigma resting on his 
name. But this son would now be twenty-three years of 
age ; he had grown up, she cynically argued, accustomed 
to the feeling, whereas in her case the knowledge had 
come upon her with a sudden and overwhelming shock. 
She pictured the pitying looks of her friends, the gibes 
of the malicious (for her beauty had made for her many 
enemies), and she shrank from facing the new situation. 
No : let the unknown Idris Marville bear the disgrace 
that of right belonged to her. And when, a month or 
two later, she learned from the newspapers that this same 
Idris Marville had perished in a fire at Paris, she felt a 
sense of relief. 

But retribution was to follow ! 

The day came when her life was in such danger that 
she must have perished but for the providential help of a 
certain stranger; and when that stranger proved to be 
251 


The Viking’s Skull 

none other than the Idris Marville whom she was wrong- 
ing by her guilty silence, her feeling of remorse was so 
great that she was almost tempted to leap from the rock 
into the sea. To withhold the truth was pain, yet to de- 
clare it would be to earn Idris’ contempt. Every kindly 
word, every pleasant look on his part, had gone to her 
heart like so many thrusts of steel. 

The irony of fate ! She had married Viscount Walden 
in the expectation of succeeding to a coronet, and now 
the belief was gradually forming in her mind that Idris 
was the rightful heir of Ravenhall : Beatrice Ravengar, 
and not herself, was destined to be the Countess of 
Ormsby. 

O, if at the age of sixteen, and following the dictates of 
justice, she had tried to find Idris Marville, and finding, 
had given him her mother’s written confession, how dif- 
ferent her life might have been ! Idris would perhaps 
have been attracted by her then as he had been seven 
years later. But now? She was united to a husband 
whom she felt to be worthless : a husband who had 
ceased to care for her : a husband whose title of right be- 
longed to Idris. 

“ I am justly punished,” she murmured, bitterly. 

The remaining contents of the packet drawn by 
Lorelie from the escritoire consisted of the correspond- 
ence mentioned by Madame Rochefort in her inculpatory 
letter. 

Arranging these missives according to the order of 
time in which they were written Lorelie took up the first, 
which dealt with the events that followed upon the flight 
from Quilaix. 


The Pelayo Hotel, Pajares. 
25th April, 1875. 

The newspapers will already have told you how ad- 
252 


A Packet of Old Letters 


mirably the rescue was planned and carried out, so I need 
not dwell upon that point. 

“ There was, however, one awkward hitch in the ar- 
rangement — the death of Mrs. Marville : but I am not to 
blame for that. Had Eric listened to me it would not 
have happened ; my intention was to proceed direct to 
the yacht : he would turn aside to take his wife with him : 
now he has no wife. 

“ Eric Marville is free, and I hope you are satisfied. 

“ The superscription of this letter will show you that we 
are no longer on board the Nemesis. 

“ ‘ What is Pajares ? ’ you may ask. A mere hamlet 
on the northern slope of the Asturian Sierras, so high 
up as to be almost in the clouds : and the building 
dignified with the name of hotel is but a miserable log 
posada. 

“ How we come to be here is soon told. 

“ To fly from Quilaix to the open sea was an easy 
task : the difficulty was to attain dry land again in safety ; 
for, as our romantic escapade would form the chief topic 
in all the newspapers, it was pretty certain that at every 
port a watch would be kept for our yacht. We feared 
putting into harbour. But land we must — somewhere. 
We could not cruise forever on the open main. How to 
land without detection was the problem. 

“ Chance decided our course of action. We lay be- 
calmed in a wild rocky bay off the Asturian coast. An- 
choring a mile from land we swept the shore with the 
glass : there was neither village nor human dwelling visi- 
ble, not a living creature in sight. It was the very spot 
for our purpose ; and, as if to favour us still more, a mist 
came on. Marville proposed that we should go ashore in 
the boat, and get rid of the tell-tale yacht by scuttling it 
there and then. I was compelled to agree to this plan, 
for I could devise none better. It went to my heart to 

253 


The Viking’s Skull 

watch the beautiful Nemesis sinking out of sight forever, 
but it would have gone to my heart still more to be cap- 
tured by a French cruiser, and provided with a cell at 
Valagenet. 

“ Fortunately, the sea was as smooth as glass and the 
wind still as we rowed off, otherwise enveloped in a fog 
on an ironbound coast we might have fared ill. We ran 
the boat ashore in safety, destroyed it immediately after- 
wards, and paid off our crew, who were as glad as our- 
selves to be quit of the yacht, for they, too, as fellow- 
conspirators in the rescue-plot, were amenable to justice. 

“We dispersed : and since the crew went eastward, 
Marville and I turned our faces westward, and walking 
all night as chance directed, found ourselves at early dawn 
at Gijon, where we rested. We assumed the character of 
pedestrian tourists. From Gijon we moved on to Oviedo, 
and thence to the mountain-hamlet of Pajares, where I 
write this. 

“ I have found Marville far from being a pleasant com- 
panion : the death of his wife has gloomed his spirits, and 
has poisoned the pleasure he might otherwise derive from 
his newly-acquired freedom. 

“ His talk, on the few occasions when he does talk, 
turns mainly upon that accident, and upon the look of 
horror which his boy gave him. ‘ He will never want to 
see me again,’ he mutters moodily. 

“ I was not sorry when he proposed that we should 
part. He saw that his gloom was an ill-match for my 
cheerful nature. With his love of mountaineering he re- 
solved to cross the sierras, and to penetrate into Leon. 
He set off without a guide. From the door of the posada 
I watched him ascending the mountain-path, his solitary 
black form outlined against the white snow. He 
dwindled to a speck, and that was the last I saw of him. 
Shall we ever see each other again ? He forgot to make 
254 


A Packet of Old Letters 


arrangements for a future meeting, and I didn't remind 
him of the point. 

“ He has done me irreparable injury. For him I have 
wrecked a brilliant military career, lost a Colonial Gover- 
norship, and made myself an exile forever from la belle 
France, Why should I confess the deed to him ? 
Haven’t I made the fellow sufficient atonement?” 

Lorelie took up another letter, which was dated more 
than a twelvemonth after the first. 

“ Hotel d’Angleterre, 

Salerno, 

1 0th May, 1876. 

“ I verily believe that the continual mention of an 
absent evil has the power of causing that evil to appear. 
In every one of your letters you have alluded, despite my 
forbiddance, to Eric Marville and his innocence. Your 
persistency in this respect seems to have raised him up 
again from the things of the past — a past I was begin- 
ning to forget. 

You can guess what is coming. 

“ I have met with Eric Marville. More than a year 
has passed since I parted from him in the village inn of 
Pajares, hoping never more to set eyes upon him : and 
now his disturbing presence is with me again. * Dis- 
turbing?’ you say. Yes. You know the aphorism, 
‘ We hate those whom we have injured ; ’ and I suppose 
I have injured him : you so often say it in your letters 
that I have come at last to believe it. 

“ What folly led me to Campania ? I might have 
foreseen our meeting ; for, prior to the rescue, did not I 
transfer his banking account under an assumed name to 
Messrs. Stradella, of Naples ? 

« But to our meeting. 


255 


The Viking’s Skull 

** Yesterday I made an excursion to Paestum, and, 
fortunately, had the place to myself. Not one tourist 
was there. Solitary and charmed I wandered for a 
whole day among the magnificent ruins of the past. 

“ Amid the stillness of a lovely twilight I sat down at 
the base of a marble column belonging to the Temple of 
Neptune. The whole circle of the sky, from the wine- 
dark sea before me to the peaks of the cypress-clad 
mountains behind, was flushed with the deep violet hues 
to be seen only in this southern clime. 

“ I smoked a cigar and drank in the pure air of peace. 
It was a time disposing one to turn poet, monk, or some- 
body equally moral. I had almost forgotten that night 
at Nantes. 

“ Suddenly my eye caught sight of a shadow. I 
looked up ; and there was Eric Marville watching me 
with an expression that made me feel uneasy, I could not 
tell why. 

“ On seeing that I had noticed him he came forward. 
He did not offer his hand, but smiled mysteriously, 
almost exultantly, so it seemed to me, and took a seat 
opposite me on a fallen pillar. 

** At first we talked commonplaces. Presently he re- 
marked : 

am going yachting among the fiords of Norway; 
You must accompany me.’ 

“ His manner implied that /te was master and / serv- 
ant ! Why should he desire me for his conipagnon de 
voyage, seeing that, as matters are at present, we are so 
unlike each other, he gloomy, I gay ? 

“ ‘ There is a fine yacht for sale at Naples. The price 
is moderate. I propose that we divide it between us.’ 

“ Do you believe, Therese, that man is a free agent, 
with full control over his own actions ? Of course you 
answer * Yes ’ ; your father-confessor has preached the 
256 


A Packet of Old Letters 


doctrine a hundred times. I answer ‘ No ’ ! How, 
otherwise, can I account for my conduct? I hate the 
fellow ; I do not wish to go yachting ; I have a presenti- 
ment that ill will come of it. Nevertheless, I have given 
him my promise. Explain that, if you can.” 

“ The Hotel Crocelle, Naples, 

2d June, 1876. 

** The transfer of the yacht is complete. It is as pretty 
a vessel as one could desire. Over it my first open va- 
riance with Marville arose. I say *• open,’ because, se- 
cretly, we have been in a state of hostility to each other 
since the day of our meeting at Paestum. 

“ Marville was desirous of changing the name of our 
new-bought yacht. I suggested Lorelie, after the little 
daughter whom I trust one day to see ; he wished it to 
be called Idris, after his child. The spin of a coin de- 
cided the point in his favour. The crew are all English, 
and have given proof of it. When Marville ordered the 
new name to be painted, they begged him not to rechris- 
ten the vessel, declaring that to do so would bring ill- 
luck. Marville treated their opinion with contempt. He 
rolled up his shirt-sleeves, slung a plank over the side, 
and set to work himself, painting the name Idris as if to 
the manner born. Two of the crew deserted in conse- 
quence. Strange that English sailors, so bold in fight, 
should be so superstitious ! ” 

The Yacht Idris, Gibraltar, 
7th July, 1876. 

“ Marville is a wretched companion. Twelve months 
of freedom ought to have made him as bright and gay as 
in the old days, instead of which he is the same melan- 
choly being who left me at Pajares, with only one topic 
of conversation — his unjust conviction. 

17 257 


The Viking’s Skull 

« You ask me whether I shall ever tell him that it was 
I who slew Duchesne? You might as well ask me 
whether I want my throat cut at once ? That little 
affair at Nantes was the beginning of a train of circum- 
stances that ended in the death of his wife. He would 
hold me primarily responsible for this last unlucky acci- 
dent. Tell him the true story ! I would as soon tell the 
Minister of Justice, who would at least see that I had a 
fair trial, whereas Marville, in his present state of gloom, 
is incapable of listening to reason. Yesterday, while 
toying with his knife at dinner, he muttered, ‘ I would 
that the assassin of Duchesne were before me now ! ’ 
You can guess how I felt at those words. I am in a 
trying situation. Every day I have to listen to a new 
theory accounting for the cause of the murder, with re- 
marks as to how an intelligent detective ought to set to 
work. It is not enough for me to smoke in silence ; he 
wants to hear theories from me on the matter, and be- 
comes angry because I have none to give. I wish to 
God he would talk of something else besides the one 
everlasting theme ! I feel that I shall be betraying my- 
self some day. 

You remember the silver altar-ring engraved with 
runic letters, the ring that he entrusted to my secret 
keeping on the morning of his arrest? After his trial I 
handed the relic to his wife, but scarcely knowing why, 
I made a copy of the runic inscription. This copy hap- 
pened to be among my papers on board the Nemesis, 
and, believe me, when leaving the sinking yacht, Marville 
betrayed more concern over this wretched piece of writ- 
ing than over anything else on board. 

“ It seems that he has been studying my transcript 
during the past year, trying to extract some meaning 
from it : and though failing hitherto, he still perseveres. 

“ He talks oddly at times, and I am beginning to be- 
258 


A Packet of Old Letters 


lieve that his mind is unhinged. He declared to-day 
that he is the rightful heir to a peerage, and could take 
his rank to-morrow if he chose. Of course I believe this ! ” 

“ The Yacht IdriSy Penzance, 

1 2th J uly , 1 876. 

If you perceive a difference in my penmanship 
ascribe it to my trembling hand. I am in a state of 
nervous fear. The strangest, the most inexplicable, the 
weirdest event of my life, happened yesterday. I was 
cleansing my hands in a bowl of water. Marville was 
standing beside me. Suddenly he observed in a very 
strange tone, *■ Do your hands always redden the water 
like that ? ’ 

“ I glance downwards. The water in the basin — be- 
lieve me or not, as you will — was as crimson as blood ! 
My God ! it looked for all the world like the water in 
which I washed my hands that night ! 

“ I could see by the mirror that my face had turned as 
white as chalk. My agitation was too obvious to escape 
Marville’s notice. He smiled strangely, and turned 
away. What does it mean ? Can it be that he suspects 
me of — that? I have not yet recovered from the 
shock, though it happened twenty-four hours ago, nor 
have I washed my hands since then. My God ! if it 
should happen again ! I never expected to feel regret 
for the death of Duchesne ; nevertheless, I do. It has 
reduced me to a devilishly nervous state of mind. I 
suppose moralists would say that I am suffering retribu- 
tion. 

“ One of the sailors declares that he heard me talking 
in my sleep. I must keep my cabin-door locked at 
night. If I should babble of that, and wake to find 
Marville sitting by my bedside with an awful smile and 
with glassy eyes fixed on me ! ” 

259 


The Viking’s Skull 

“ The Yacht Idris, Trondheim, 
loth September, 1876. 

I verily believe that Marville is mad ! He pretends 
that he has deciphered the runic inscription. It relates 
to the buried treasure of an old Norse Viking — which 
treasure, he avers, still exists in the spot where it was 
hidden, a thousand years ago, the site being some point 
on the eastern coast of England. A short run across the 
North Sea will bring us to the place. He is bent on 

finding it. Is it not clear that he is mad ? 

“ Hitherto I have taken charge of the yacht. Now he 
has assumed the command, heedless of my mild pro- 
tests. The crew do not like this change of masters. 
His seamanship is of the wildest character. He de- 
lights to sport with reefs and eddies, with winds and 
storms. Thank heaven ! we are going no farther north, 
or he would take a diabolical pleasure in steering us all 
into the Maelstrom in order to demonstrate how cleverly 
he could get us out again. This may be all very well for 

him, who is in love with death, but for my part I prefer 

to live. 

“ He has exchanged his former melancholy mood for 
one of reckless mirth. He drinks : talks loudly : laughs 1 
and promises to divide his imaginary treasure among the 
crew. ‘ To obtain it,' he says, ‘ we shall have to pene- 
trate to the chamber of the dead, for its hiding-place is 
the tomb. But the ancient curse must be fulfilled ; and 
you,' he added, turning to me, ‘ shall be our Protesilaus.' 

My classics have grown rusty. Who the devil was 
Protesilaus ? " 


The Yacht Idris, Bergen, 
7th October, 1876. 

“ I have discovered who Protesilaus was — a Greek 
hero who sacrificed his life to procure the safety of his 
260 


A Packet of Old Letters 


friends. Curious ! What does Marville mean by calling 
me Protesilaus ? 

“ A strange occurrence took place last night. A sub- 
dued wailing was heard among the shrouds. The thick 
fog prevented us from discovering the origin of the 
sound. Fear fell on the crew, and none of them would 
ascend the rigging to ascertain the cause. They mut- 
tered that it was a ghost, and that it foreboded ill to all 
on board. Marville laughed at them for a pack of fools ! 
Of course it was nothing but the moaning of some sea- 
bird, but, for all that, in my then state of mind it was 
sufficiently disquieting. 

‘‘ I retired to rest, but only to lie awake all night with 
that eerie sound playing around the vessel. The sailors 
have lost all cheerfulness, and believe themselves to be 
living on a doomed ship. ‘ What vessel ever did well, 
after she was re-named ? ’ asked one. I confess that I 
myself am affected by the general gloom, but when I ex- 
pressed to Marville my intention of remaining at Bergen 
till his return from the treasure-search, he cried, * No, 
no ! you, of all persons, must not leave us.’ Why not ? 
I thought of Protesilaus again. 

“ The more I consider his moody watchful manner 
towards me of late, the more convinced I grow that he 
suspects me of the killing of Duchesne. He has lured 
me on board this yacht with the object of torturing my 
conscience ; by perpetually dwelling upon the crime he 
hopes to entrap me into a confession. So far he has 
failed, but my position is a terrible one. I feel intuitively 
that he is maturing some scheme of vengeance. 

“ ‘ Why do I not escape ? ’ you may ask. Impossible ! 
The sailors, I believe, have orders to watch me. If I go 
ashore he accompanies me, ostensibly from friendship, in 
reality to keep guard over me. His dreadful smile fasci- 
nates me, and chains me to him. I seem to have lost all 
261 


The Viking's Skull 

freedom of will and action, and to have fallen completely 
under the spell of some weird being from another world. 
I feel that ere long he will draw the secret from me. 

“ When I behold my reflection in the glass I cannot 
refrain from the thought, ‘ Can that be the once brilliant 
and handsome Rochefort?’ I look ten years older — 
grey, haggard. I should be quite safe in returning to 
France, for no one would recognize me now. 

“ If there be a tribunal above to which one is responsi- 
ble for the deeds done on earth, I trust that the remorse 
I have suffered of late ^Vill be taken into account.” 

The Yacht Idris. In Ormsby Roads, 

1 3th October, 1 876, 7 p. m. 

“We are anchored off the English coast in front of a 
little town called Ormsby-on-Sea. To the right of the 
town and about a mile from the shore rise the towers of 
some old castle, embowered in a woodland vale, and 
forming a pretty feature in the landscape. Marville 
seems to take a great interest in this edifice; all this 
morning he has been studying it through the telescope. 

“ ‘ Haven’t seen the place for ten years,’ he muttered. 
* wonder if he is still alive.’ 

“ I asked him the name of the place. A scowl was 
my only answer. He hasn’t improved in amiability 
since we left Bergen. In the dictatorial spirit assumed 
by him of late he will not permit any of us to land. He 
himself is going ashore for some purpose which he re- 
fuses to disclose. He will not return to the yacht till to- 
morrow. I am dispatching this letter to the post by the 
sailor who is to row Marville ashore — a sailor whom I 
can trust. — Farewell ! ” 

“ The last letter we ever received from him,” mur- 
mured Lorelie, laying down the missive. 

262 


A Packet of Old Letters 


The tone of the final letters conveyed an impression 
terrible in its suggestiveness to her mind now that by 
means of her hypnotic experiment she had become aware 
of the tragedy that had taken place within the interior 
of OrmfelL 

The Idris went down on the evening of October 
1 3th,” she murmured, “ and late that same night Olave 
Ravengar returned to Ravenhall after an absence of ten 
years. Is this a coincidence, or is the present earl the 
same person as Eric Marville ? Did my father go down 
with the yacht, or did he escape the sea only to fall 
within the interior of Ormfell by the hand of the man 
whom he had wronged?” 


263 


CHAPTER XVI 


LORELIE AT RAVENHALL 

L ord warden was reading a newspaper one 
afternoon in the quietude of his own room at 
Ravenhall, When the step of some person enter- 
ing the chamber unannounced caused him to look up, 
and he found Lorelie standing before him. 

“ Hul-lo ! ” he muttered, throwing down the news- 
paper, and startled beyond measure at seeing his wife so 
near his father’s presence. “ What brings you here ? ” 
To claim my rights,” she answered quietly. “ Why 
should the wife occupy a modest villa while the husband 
lives in castled state ? ” 

She took off her toque and mantle, threw them upon 
the table, and, with the air of one who had come to stay, 
sat down in an armchair opposite him. 

For some moments Ivar frowned darkly at his fair 
young wife, and was obviously dismayed by her de^ 
termination. 

When the earl, a few weeks previously, had urged 
upon him the necessity for marrying Beatrice, Ivar had 
lacked the courage to confess that he had a wife already, 
knowing that the statement would be certain to evoke 
his father’s anger, and Ivar stood in considerable awe of 
his father. 

Accordingly, he had made a pretence of submission, 
and had gone so far as to delude the earl with the fiction 
that he was paying successful court to Beatrice. This 
contemptible subterfuge was not one that could be long 
continued in any circumstances ; but Lorelie's sudden 
264 


Lorelie at Ravenhall 

resolve for recognition threatened to bring matters to a 
climax that very day. 

“ Y ou have come here to create a vulgar scene before 
all the servants, I see,” scowled Ivar. 

“ I have come here to redeem my name,” she answered 
indignantly. “ Do you know that at the flower-show 
yesterday ladies turned aside to avoid me, and that I 
caught the half-whispered words, * Lord Walden’s mis- 
tress ’ ? Do you wish me to return to The Cedars to live 
there under such a name ? I will keep silent no longer. 
To day all Ormsby shall know that I am Viscountess 
Walden.” 

Vainly did Ivar try to temporize, to persuade, to cajole, 
to threaten. Lorelie continued inflexible. 

“ Take me to your father,” she said. My maiden 
name will compel him to acknowledge me.” 

“ What is there in the name of Riviere to charm him ? ” 
asked Ivar, in surprise. 

** Nothing, but much in the name of Rochefort,” she 
answered, rising to her feet. Will you go with me, 
or shall I go alone to inform him that I have mar- 
ried a craven who lacks the spirit and courage to tell the 
truth ? ” 

Ivar saw the necessity of yielding. Looking with a 
very ill grace at his wife he touched a hand-bell on the 
table. 

“ Where is the earl ? ” he asked of the footman, who 
appeared in answer to the summons. 

“ His lordship is taking the air on the western terrace,'^ 
was the reply. 

The viscount rose and moved off in the direction of the 
said terrace accompanied by his wife, while the footman 
stared curiously after them. 

Lorelie had come to Ravenhall for the purpose of 
verifying, if possible, the strange suspicion she had of 
265 


The Viking’s Skull 

late begun to entertain that the present Earl of Ormsby 
was none other than Eric Marville. If this surmise were 
correct, it behoved her to make known to him the truth 
concerning the murder of Duchesne. But of what avail 
was it to clear the character of Eric Marville from the 
guilt of the long-past crime, if her other suspicion should 
prove true that he was the slayer of her father ? She was 
precluded from denouncing him for this latter deed by 
reason of her position as his daughter-in-law, and by the 
thought that Captain Rochefort, in falling by the hand of 
the man whom he had wronged, had met with a justly 
merited doom. 

If the earl were really Eric Marville, it followed that 
Idris, as his elder son, was being unjustly deprived of his 
rights by the younger half-brother Ivar. 

Ignorant of the causes that had contributed to render 
Idris an object of aversion to the earl, Lorelie, neverthe- 
less, determined to compel the earl to acknowledge 
him. Thus much justice should at least be done. And 
in coming to this resolve Lorelie tried to persuade 
herself that she was actuated simply by the desire for 
justice, whereas her heart more truly told her that secret 
love for Idris was her controlling motive. 

On reaching the western terrace they found the earl 
standing at one end of it with his back towards them* 
He had just come from the library after a long spell of 
study, and was now refreshing his tired eyes by a con- 
templation of the lawns and the woods that surrounded 
his castellated mansion. 

On hearing footsteps he turned, and his cold grey eyes 
lighted upon Lorelie : not, however, for the first time, 
since her pew in St. Oswald's Church faced his own ; but 
beyond the fact that she was called Mademoiselle Riviere 
he knew nothing whatever respecting her, and, it may be 
added, had no desire to know more. 

266 


Lorelie at Ravenhall 


He supposed that Ivar had been showing her over his 
historic mansion, portions of which were open to the 
public on certain days. But this western terrace was 
private ground, reserved for the family. What did Ivar 
mean by bringing this young lady to him, who had no 
desire for an introduction ? With something like a frown 
upon his face he awaited their approach. 

Could this cold and dignified peer of the realm, thought 
Lorelie, be the man who, twenty-three years before, had 
escaped from a felon’s cell in Brittany ? Was this really 
the father of Idris ? It seemed too strange to be true. 
Was his the face that Beatrice in her hypnotic trance had 
seen peering into the Viking’s tomb ? A chilling sen- 
sation seized her as Ivar escorted her towards the presence 
of the man whom she believed to be her father’s mur- 
derer. 

Lord Ormsby was the first to speak. 

Mademoiselle Riviere, I believe,” he said, bowing 
stiffly. 

Not so, my lord.” 

No ? ” queried the earl. 

“ No ! ” she replied with a smile that annoyed him. As 
if it mattered to him who she was ! 

‘‘ Hum, some mistake. What name, then, may I 
ask ? ” 

Viscountess Walden, my lord,” she replied, with an 
air as stately as his own. 

For a few moments the earl’s surprise was too great for 
words. He sank upon a stone seat, and stared from one 
to the other. 

« You hear what this woman says,” he remarked in a 
harsh voice, turning to his son. ** Is it true ? ” 

** We are married — yes,” returned Ivar, sullenly. 

** You have given me to understand,” continued the 
earl, ** that you were paying your addresses to Beatrice.” 

267 


The Viking’s Skull 

** Father, listen to me,” muttered Ivar. “ I was already 
married at the time when you pressed Beatrice’s name 
upon me, and seeing how earnestly you were set upon 
the match I — I lacked the courage to — to state the 
truth.” 

Lorelie heard her husband’s words with secret con- 
tempt. The craven was almost apologizing for marrying 
her ! With an effort she controlled her feelings, and re- 
mained silent. 

Casting a contemptuous glance at his son the earl 
turned, and with a coldly critical eye surveyed his new 
daughter-in-law. Yes, she was undeniably beautiful, with 
an exquisite taste in dress ; and bore herself with the air 
and dignity of a princess ; clearly an ornament to Raven- 
hall, provided only that her antecedents were above the 
criticism of Society. 

** And who and whence is the lady that now bears 
Viscount Walden’s name ? ” he asked. 

My name is Lorelie, nee Rochefort.” 

Rochefort ? ” repeated the earl, with a sharp intona- 
tion on the word. 

“ I am the daughter of Captain Noel Rochefort, of 
Nantes.” 

The earl’s sudden start did not escape her attentive 
eyes. It seemed to give confirmation to her suspicion. 

“ Your lordship has perhaps heard of him? His is a 
notable name.” 

“ No. Yes. That is to say,” replied the earl in some 
confusion, unless my memory is at fault, some one of 
that name figured prominently in the French newspapers 
about twenty-three years ago. Did your father aid in 
the escape of a certain prisoner from Valagenet ? ” 

Your lordship has an excellent memory.” 

“ I was in Brittany at the time of the escape, and the 
story was in everybody’s mouth. The name of the 
268 


Lorelie at Ravenhall 


prisoner was — was,” pursued the earl, with the air of 
one striving to recall a forgotten fact, was Eric Marville, 
I think.” 

“ I must again commend your lordship’s memory.” 

“ Of what crime was this Marville found guilty ? ” 

“ He was accused of murder.” 

Murder. Ay ! so it was. I remember now,” replied 
the earl with a thoughtful air. 

Few could have surmised from his manner that in re- 
calling the name of Eric Marville he was, in reality, 
speaking of himself, and Lorelie found herself in a state 
of doubt again. 

Your father,” continued the earl, “ was a great friend 
of this Marville, otherwise he would not have planned 
and carried out this rescue-plot ? ” 

“We may presume that he was.” 

The earl’s conduct would certainly have seemed singular 
to an ordinary by-stander. The lady before him was 
waiting for recognition as his daughter-in-law, but neg- 
lecting that as a matter of no consequence, he was 
interesting himself in events that had happened more 
than twenty years before. Lorelie found her suspicion 
returning. 

“ Do you know what ultimately became of this Mar- 
ville — I mean of your father, or rather of both of 
them?” 

“ They went yachting together in ’76, and their vessel 
went down in Ormsby Race.” 

“ So near our own doors ? Strange ! Then this Mar- 
ville was drowned ? ” 

“ I have reason to believe that he was not.” 

“ Ay ! and what is your reason ? ” 

“ My lord, do j/ou ask that ? ” she answered with signi- 
ficant intonation. 

“ I don’t understand you.” 

269 


The Viking’s Skull 

But he did not press for her meaning ; Lorelie marked 
that. And there was an interval of silence ere he re- 
sumed his catechism. 

“ Your father, Captain Rochefort — was he drowned ? 

I have reasons — very strong reasons — for believing 
that he escaped the fury of the sea, only to be murdered.” 

While speaking she kept her gaze fixed upon the earl’s 
face to mark the effect of her words. Unless she was 
mistaken there was in his eyes something very like the 
light of fear. 

Murdered?” he said. “What leads you to this 
strange belief ? ” 

“ With your lordship’s permission I will reserve my 
reasons for another time. — You have not yet said,” she 
added quietly, “ whether you acknowledge me.” 

“ You are my son’s wife, and, therefore, my daughter. 
Welcome to Ravenhall ! ” 

Rising from his seat he approached and kissed her. 
And at this seal of recognition Ivar heaved a sigh of 
relief. The trying ordeal was over, and it had not ended, 
as he had fancied that it might, in his enforced retirement 
from Ravenhall. 

When the earl touched Lorelie’s cheek with his lips he 
found her skin as cold as marble. She had submitted to 
the act, not knowing how to repulse it ; but — kissed by 
her father’s murderer ! To receive such a kiss seemed to 
her mind like a condonation of the crime — a purchase 
of her position at the price of her father’s blood. 

She grew faint. Why was she placing herself in a 
position where day by day she would encounter the pres- 
ence of this terrible earl ? for to her he was terrible. A 
great longing came upon her to go back to The Cedars ; 
but the thought of Idris calmed her. For his sake she 
would stay. Her belief that he was the rightful heir of 
Ravenhall was, after all, a matter of conjecture, not of 
270 


Lorelie at Ravenhall 


knowledge: she must have proofs before telling him 
of her opinion : and, in her judgment, such proofs would 
be found at Ravenhall. 

Hating herself for the hypocrisy she masked her feel- 
ings with a smile and endeavoured to appear gratified 
with her new position. 

Learning that Lorelie had not yet seen the interior of 
Ravenhall the earl, as if wishful to conciliate her, under- 
took to conduct her over the mansion. 

He escorted his new daughter-in-law through the finer 
parts of the caistle, pointing out the various treasures con- 
tained within its walls : but though he talked much dur- 
ing this tour of inspection Lorelie was conscious all the 
time of being furtively scanned by him, as if he were 
trying to fathom her character and aims : and the belief 
was borne in upon her mind that she was the object of 
his suspicion and fear. 

He bade her select as her own whatever apartments 
might take her fancy, and introduced her to the house- 
keeper, telling the latter that, as regarded the domestic 
arrangements of Ravenhall, she must now receive her 
orders from the new viscountess. Then, having rendered 
these honours, the earl went back to his library with the 
remark that they would meet again at dinner. 

‘‘ Egad, we're in luck’s way ! ” exclaimed the delighted 
Ivar. ** Who’d have thought the old boy would prove so 
gracious ? But why have you always kept it a secret 
from me that you are Captain Rochefort’s daughter?” 
He gave Lorelie no time to reply, for, suddenly struck 
by a new thought, he continued, “ O, by the way, just a 
hint, lest you should unwittingly betray a secret of mine. 
Don’t let the governor ever know that I have given you 
a golden vase.” 

“ Very well, Ivar. But may I ask your reason for this 
caution ? ” 


271 


The Viking’s Skull 

The viscount tugged the ends of his light moustache 
with a shamefacedness very unusual in him. 

“ Hum ! ah ! well ! I suppose I had better speak the 
truth. The fact is Fve had to forestall my future herit- 
age by appropriating some pieces of the family plate.” 

Appropriating ! That is a good word, Ivar.” 

^ “ Call it what you like. It was necessitated by the ex- 
pense of keeping a wife. Your tastes are costly. Pic- 
tures, works of art, rare furniture, rich dresses are the 
breath of life to you. Deny it if you can. I was obliged 
to resort to some expedient in order to satisfy your ex- 
travagance. That vase was one of my — er — appropri' 
ations. I gave it to you to convert into cash, but you 
seem to prefer keeping it.” 

“ And so the money you have given me during the 
past few months has come from the sale of this plate ? ” 

Ivar nodded assent. 

“ Was this plate contained in the jewel-room through 
which the earl has just taken us ? ” 

“ O, dear no ! The store I refer to is far too valuable 
and tempting to be exposed to the eyes of even the old- 
est and most trusted of our family servants — at least, 
that's the governor’s opinion. He is somewhat eccentric, 
you know. So he keeps this treasure to himself in a 
secret place.” 

Lorelie did not ask Ivar to name this secret place : she 
had her own opinion as to the locality, and would not 
have believed Ivar if he had declared it to be elsewhere. 

“Your father inspects these treasures occcisionally, I 
presume ? ” 

“ Of course — with the joy of an old miser.” 

“ And he keeps a catalogue of them ? ” 

“ You bet he does ! ” 

“ Then how have you contrived to keep your appropri- 
ations undiscovered?” 


272 


Lorelie at Ravenhall 

A look of low conceit and cunning overspread the 
face of the viscount. 

“ Ah ! that’s my secret. The governor thinks he still 
possesses the missing plate. It’s there before his eyes, 
and yet it isn’t there. He sees it, and yet he doesn’t see 
it. He’s an artful fellow, the old boy ! But for once he’s 
been outwitted. You don’t understand. Some day I’ll 
explain my meaning. Meantime, remember, mum’s the 
word on this business.” 

And here Ivar went off to inspect a new hunter that 
had just arrived, while Lorelie turned away with a look 
of unspeakable horror in her eyes. 

“ So the Viking’s treasure found its way to Ravenhall,” 
she murmured. “ And by whose hand it is clear. The 
price of my father’s blood ! My God ! to think that I 
have been living on money derived from such a source ! ” 

That same evening at sunset Lorelie sat alone on the 
grand terrace overlooking the undulating landscape that 
surrounded Ravenhall. Behind her rose the ivied man- 
sion with its fine halls and treasures of art. Roses, glow- 
ing in sculptured vases along the terrace, filled the air 
with their sweetness. Marble fountains flashed aloft their 
silvery spray. Below, in front of her, green lawns and 
woodlands stretched away to the margin of a shimmer- 
ing lake — all bathed in the dusky golden glow of 
sunset. 

This day should have been one of the proudest of her 
life. She had received recognition from the earl, and 
was now an acknowledged wife, a peeress, and the des- 
tined queen of the county-side. 

While living at The Cedars she had been slighted by 
some of the society of Ormsby, and had been cruelly tra- 
duced by others ; how great, then, would be the mortifica- 
tion of her enemies to learn that the person whom they 
had contemned held the proud rank of Viscountess 
i8 273 


The Viking’s Skull 

Walden I They would be but too willing now to efface 
the past and do her homage ; for, to be on visiting terms 
at Ravenhall was the ambition of all the elite of Ormsby. 
What a triumph for her! Youth and beauty, rank and 
wealth — all were hers ! 

That was one side of the medal ; how different the re- 
verse I 

Her father was a murderer; her father-in-law was a 
murderer ; her husband was, in his own language, an 
“ appropriator,” or, in other words, a thief : and she her- 
self was but a spy at Ravenhall, seeking for proofs to de- 
prive him of his prospective wealth and title ! Even now 
he manifested indifference to her : what would be his feel- 
ings if, through her instrumentality, Idris Breakspear 
should succeed to the coronet of the Ravengars ? 

Whether she spoke out, or whether she remained mute, 
a melancholy future lay before her. On the one hand 
splendour purchased at the price of injustice to Idris : on 
the other the lifelong hatred of her husband for prefer- 
ring the interests of Idris to his own. 

The voice of Ivar jarred upon her meditations. He 
was lounging along the terrace smoking the inevitable 
cigarette. 

“ My lady doesn’t seem very happy now that she 
dwells * in marble halls, with vassals and serfs by her side.’ 
Look around you,” he continued, with a sweep of his 
arm that took in the whole landscape. “ As far as you 
can see, north, east, south, and west, all is ours. Isn’t 
the prospect fair enough for you ? ” 

‘‘ As fair as the Dead Sea fruit — all ashes to the 
taste.” 

She lifted her head, and he saw that her face was pale, 
that her eyes were suffused with tears, that her expression 
was one of unutterable melancholy. 

‘‘ Why the devil did you come here, if you don’t like 
274 


Lorelie at Ravenhall 


it ? Upon my word you are hard to please ! Is this 
your gratitude to the pater for his gracious reception of 
you ! ” 

“ To be called ‘ Viscountess Walden/ and < Your lady- 
ship/ ” she murmured to herself, “ knowing all the time 
that I am listening to a lie ! ” 

Ivar started, but made no reply. He lounged off to 
the end of the terrace, where he stood watching his wife 
with a dark expression on his face. 

“ Got a fit of the blues on !” he muttered. “ Think- 
ing of Breakspear, and how hard it is he should be kept 
from his own, and so forth. By God ! supposing she lets 
her craze for that fellow carry her to the extreme of de- 
claring the truth ! She loves him, and a woman in love 
will commit any folly. She’s not to be trusted.” 

While he was occupied with these uneasy reflections a 
footman appeared, carrying on a silver salver a letter ad- 
dressed to the viscount. . 

Ivar gave a start when he perceived the handwriting 
on the envelope, and ere opening it cast a glance at the 
distant Lorelie. 

The note was a sweet-scented one, signed “ Lilias 
Winter,” and contained a request for a subscription to a 
local charity, at least so the simple-minded would have 
read it, but to Ivar it conveyed a very different meaning. 
Interpreted by a prearranged code the note signified that 
on the part of the sender circumstances were favourable 
that night for receiving a visit from the viscount. For 
Ivar, with a perversity of taste, not uncommon in the 
immoral, found more pleasure in carrying on an intrigue 
with a widow of forty than in cultivating the society of 
his fair young wife. 

A few days previously, when ignorant of the existence 
of Idris, the viscount would have laughed in Lorelie’s 
face had she reproached him with this amour. 

275 


The Viking’s Skull 

Now he suddenly became conscious that this intrigue 
was no laughing matter. 

His succession to the title and estates depended on his 
wife’s good will. Any act on his part tending to pro- 
voke her might end in his ruin. When the handsome 
widow, who had entertained hopes herself of one day be- 
coming Viscountess Walden, should learn of Ivar’s mar- 
riage, disappointment and jealousy might prompt her to 

reveal this amour to Lorelie. And then ? Ill usage 

from her husband Lorelie might tolerate, but infidelity, 
never ! Goaded by such an outrage she would fling his 
interests to the winds, and make it known that Idris was 
the rightful heir of Ravenhall. 

“No help for it,” muttered Ivar. “ I must tell the 
governor at once, and tell him all without disguise ; that 
Idris Marville is not only alive, but dwelling here to-day 
at Ormsby ; that Lorelie suspects who he is, and that 
Lilias will have to be bribed into silence, otherwise she 
will create a scandal of which Lorelie will avail herself to 
our confusion and ruin. Breakspear at present is igno- 
rant of his lineage ; something must be done to prevent 
him from ever learning it — but what ? ” 

Jfs ♦ ♦ * 5ie ♦ 

The lights in the library at Ravenhall burned till a late 
hour that night, or rather they were continued till far into 
the morning. 

The sleep of the new viscountess in her distant bed- 
chamber was fitful and troubled, but there would have 
been no sleep at all for her could she have known the 
character of the conversation taking place in the library 
between the Ravengars, father and son. 


276 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE SECRET OF THE FUNERAL CRYPT 

O N the day following her recognition at Raven- 
hall Lorelie sat at luncheon with the earl and 
the viscount. The servants had retired, leaving 
them free to indulge in private conversation. 

“ To my fair daughter-in-law,” said the earl, touching 
his glass with his lips and bowing to Lorelie, who re- 
turned the greeting but coldly. The space of twenty- 
four hours had not reconciled her any the more to his 
presence. 

“ Do you know that old Lanfranc is dead ? ” remarked 
Ivar, addressing his father. 

“ No. Where did you learn that ? ” 

“ Saw it just now in the obituary column of the 
Times!' 

May one ask who Lanfranc is ? ” said Lorelie. 

Sir George Lanfranc,” replied the earl, “ is ” 

Was,” corrected Ivar. 

“ Our family solicitor,” continued the earl, with a 
frown — he hated to be corrected — and one of the 
privileged four admitted to the knowledge of our secret 
f^uneral vault.” 

“ The other three being ? ” queried Lorelie. 

<< Ivar and I, as a matter of course : and the Rector of 
Ormsby.” 

I think I could name a fifth,” murmured Lorelie to 
herself. 

For, on the day prior to her coming to Ravenhall she 
had chanced to meet with Godfrey, and, moved by a 
277 


The Viking’s Skull 

sudden impulse, he had told her how he had followed 
Ivar to the crypt and what had happened there, not 
omitting Lord Walden’s utterance that it was done on 
Lorelie’s account. The story was a complete revelation 
to her, and, while thanking Godfrey for his communica- 
tion, she determined to discover the meaning of the 
strange affair with which Ivar had associated her name. 
A favourable opportunity seemed now to present itself, 
and she resolved to essay a bold stroke. 

“ We shall have to choose some one to supply Lan- 
franc’s place,” said the earl, turning to his son. 

** Permit me to offer myself,” suggested Lorelie. 

Lord Ormsby raised his eyebrows in manifest sur- 
prise. 

“ Ladies have never been admitted to that vault,” he 
replied. In that respect it resembles the Baptist’s 
Chapel in the Genoese Cathedral.” 

** But that chapel is open to ladies on one day in the 
year,” replied Lorelie. “ Therefore, your parallel will 
not hold.” 

Are you really serious in making this suggestion ? ” 
asked the earl. 

“ Perfectly.” 

“ What is your reason ? ” 

Lorelie shrugged her shoulders. 

“ You don’t require reason from a woman,” she re- 
plied. It would be hard for me to give my reason. 
Curiosity, mainly : the desire of seeing what no other 
woman has seen, or ever will see.” 

“ The initiated have to swear an oath to keep the 
secret,” said Ivar. 

“ That gives quite a romantic charm to the adventure,” 
Lorelie replied. 

The earl sat silent for a moment as if weighing the 
matter, and then cast at his son a look which seemed to 
278 


The Secret of the Funeral Crypt 

convey a silent suggestion, a suggestion that appeared to 
meet with tacit acceptance from the other. 

“ There is really no reason why we should not admit 
you to the vault,” he remarked. ‘‘ Better one of the fam- 
ily than an outsider. And you are one of us now,” he 
added with a sigh, as though the fact were much to be re- 
gretted. You shall be one of the privileged four, if you 
desire it. When would you like to pay your first visit ? ” 
Why not now ? ” she asked impulsively, rising from 
her seat as she spoke. 

“ Humph ! ” replied the earl, thoughtfully. “ Suppose 
we say to-night. The late hour will enable us the better 
to escape the prying eyes of the servants. You consent? 
Good ! Then we will meet in this dining-hall a little be- 
fore twelve to-night. But — not a whisper of this to any 
one. Let the matter be kept secret.” 

Lorelie rose and sought the retirement of her own 
room, not without wonder that the earl should accept her 
strange proposal almost as soon as he heard it. Then, 
as she recalled the curious look he had cast at Ivar, to- 
gether with his injunction to observe secrecy respecting 
the intended visit, there swept over her a sudden wave 
of cold feeling induced by a thought so dreadful that she 
could scarcely bring herself to entertain it. But the idea 
would persist in stamping itself in letters of fire upon her 
mind. 

** I know he hates me ! ” she gasped. “ I saw that in 
his eyes when he first heard my name. I know he hates 
me, but — my God ! to such an extent as t/ia^ / Is he 
afraid that the daughter will seek to avenge her father ? 
And will he get Ivar to consent ? ” 

While she was occupied with these terrible misgivings 
her husband came slouching in. He seated himself on 
a chair and regarded her for a moment with a strange 
expression that set her trembling. 

279 


The Viking’s Skull 

** So you’ve quite made up your mind to visit the 
vault ? ” 

She assented with a nod, not daring to trust herself to 
speak. Her heart was beating like a steam-hammer ; 
faint murmurs were ringing in her ears ; she seemed to 
see Ivar as through a mist. 

Bah ! you lack the courage. You will be crying off 
from the venture before the night comes.” 

His sneer roused her spirit, and she spoke in a low 
tone, striving to control the tremors of her voice. 

“ I will not cry off : no,” she added, emphasizing her 
words, as if to fix his attention, “ not if it should end in 
my death.” 

Ivar started and glanced suspiciously at her. 

Suddenly Lorelie rose, and walking to an oak-press 
produced a small piece of faded black velvet fringed on 
one edge with silver lace. Sitting down with needle and 
thread she proceeded with deft fingers to manipulate this 
velvet into a sort of ornamental bow, without cutting the 
fabric or in any way diminishing its original size. 

Her husband moodily watched her, wondering why 
she should form a dress-ornament from such faded stuff 
and why she should select this particular juncture for 
making it. 

** What’s that thing you are making ? ” he asked in a 
sullen voice. 

“ Merely a bow,” she answered, extending the half-fin- 
ished article towards him. “ Of what do you suppose 
this velvet once formed part ? ” 

“ It might have been cut from a pall by the look 
of it.” 

“ I commend your discernment. You are not far 
wrong.” 

Perhaps you will enlighten me,” he asked, scowling, 
as he noticed her air of satisfaction at his perplexity. 

280 


The Secret of the Funeral Crypt 

“ It is not the first time you have seen this velvet and 
its parent fabric,” said Lorelie. 

Approaching a mirror she held the bow against the 
neck-band of her dress. 

“ I shall wear this bow to-night. True, it does not look 
very pretty, yet it may serve as a talisman, and ” 

But on looking up she found that Ivar was gone. The 
velvet dropped to the carpet, and she clasped her hands. 

“ They mean it,” she murmured. “ I can read it in 
Ivar’s guilty manner — half-resolve, half-fear : letting ‘ I 
dare not ’ wait upon ‘ I would.’ My God ! But I will 
go through with it. I will put their base courage to the 
test.” 

Her first fears had vanished, leaving her hard and firm 
as steel. The spirit that loves danger for its own sake, 
the spirit derived from her Corsican ancestors, began to 
reawake in the breast of their nineteenth -century de- 
scendant. 

At six in the evening Lorelie, who had spent the after- 
noon in arranging her plan of action, stole quietly to her 
bedroom, having told the butler she would not come 
down to dinner. 

“ I must sleep,” she murmured, “ that my faculties may 
be fresh and unimpaired for to-night’s work.” 

Her first care was to lock and bolt the door that opened 
upon the corridor, and next that communicating with 
Ivar’s bedroom. She paid considerable attention to these 
doors, as well as to the fastenings of the windows. A 
traveller putting up for the night at some lonely and 
suspicious hostelry could not have shown more caution. 
Thus secured from intrusion she laid herself down, dressed 
as she was, upon the bed. But fully two hours elapsed 
ere she succeeded in falling asleep. 

When she awoke she found herself shivering with cold 
and in total darkness. For a few moments she lay 
281 


The Viking’s Skull 

dreamily conscious that some ordeal awaited her, but un- 
able at first to recall what it was. Then memory revived. 
The visit to the vault ! Yes ! that was it ; and the thought 
made her pulses quicken. 

She rose, procured a light, and found that it was close 
upon midnight. 

“ So late ! They will begin to think that I am not 
coming.” 

Fastening the velvet bow to the neck-band of her dress 
she unlocked the chamber-door and walked out into the 
corridor. A deep silence reigned throughout the man- 
sion, a silence that to her imagination had something awe- 
some in it. It seemed like the prelude to a tragedy. 
With a firm step she descended the staircase and made 
her way to the dining-hall, where a murmur of voices told 
her that the earl and Ivar were awaiting her. 

Their conversation ceased upon her entrance, and both 
looked up, Ivar seeming somewhat perturbed in spirit, 
the earl smiling and evidently pleased that she had 
come. 

« We were just discussing the probability of your ap- 
pearing,” said he. Ivar was confident that you would 
cry off from the business. And, certainly, a coffin-vault 
is not a very cheerful place.” 

‘‘ It is not the dead one has to fear,” replied Lorelie, 
“ but the living.” 

“ Your wife has more courage than you gave her credit 
for, Ivar,” remarked the earl approvingly. ** If you will 
carry the lamp I will give her my arm.” 

Thank you,” replied Lorelie, declining the proffered 
arm, ** but I can walk without aid.” 

They set forward from the dining-hall, the earl going 
first, Ivar a model of ill-grace walking beside Lorelie. 
He did not speak, but glanced curiously at her from time 
to time. 


282 


The Secret of the Funeral Crypt 

The expedition was so strange, so unlike anything she 
had ever known before, that Lorelie began to wonder 
whether the whole scene was not a dream. It was diffi- 
cult to believe that the earl, so smiling and courteous, 
could really entertain the black design of which she 
suspected him. 

At the end of the Picture Gallery they reached that 
little lumber-room which Godfrey Rothwell had so long 
hesitated to enter on that memorable night when track- 
ing Ivar to the vault. Making his way to the hearth the 
earl stood in the wide space beneath the mantel, and lift- 
ing his hand within the chimney he touched what Lorelie 
judged was a hidden spring, for his action was immedi- 
ately followed by a faint creaking of pulleys and ropes, 
and then the perpendicular slab forming one side of the 
fireplace began slowly to descend, revealing behind it an 
empty space. 

“ The secret way to our crypt,” remarked the earl. 

He passed through the entrance. Ivar, who had not 
spoken one word since leaving the dining-hall, followed. 
Lorelie went last. 

She looked about her. The light carried by Ivar faintly 
illumined the place. She was standing in a narrow pas- 
sage, paved, walled, and roofed, with stone. Its length 
could not be ascertained by the eye, for it stretched away 
indefinitely in the gloom. 

The earl began to manipulate the machinery, and the 
stone slab slowly ascended till its lower end rested upon 
the hearth again. Lorelie, attentive to his action, grasped 
with quick eye the principle of the mechanism. Such 
knowledge would be useful in the event of her having to 
return alone. 

All communication with the outer world was now cut 
off. She was completely at the mercy of the two men, 
and though this was only what she had foreseen, yet none 
283 


The Viking’s Skull 

the less the sudden realization of the fact caused a certain 
chilling of her high courage. 

The order of their march was now changed : they 
walked abreast : Lorelie in the centre, the earl on her 
right, Ivar, still silent, on her left. 

Though apparently staring about with interest and 
curiosity Lorelie in reality never took her eyes from the 
earl. It might have been simply the effect of the flicker- 
ing light, but in her opinion his face had an exultant and 
sinister expression. She became more than ever on her 
guard, and any sudden movement on his part caused her 
right hand to seek her dress pocket in which a loaded re- 
volver lay concealed. 

A steep descent of stone steps now yawned in front of 
them. With her left hand Lorelie drew her dainty skirts 
around her, and glanced in disgust at the black slimy ooze 
and the patches of fungous growth. 

These stairs look slippery,” she murmured. 

“ A former lord of Ormsby broke his neck down these 
very steps,” remarked the earl. 

“ I have no wish to imitate his feat,” said Lorelie, draw- 
ing back a little. “ Do you go first. If I slip I shall be 
but a light weight, whereas if you should fall upon me,” 
she added, with a shrug of her shoulders, “ there is no 
knowing what might happen.” 

The earl gave her a suspicious look as if detecting a 
hidden meaning in her words : then, compliant with her 
wish, he led the way down the steps. Lorelie came last, 
feeling more at ease in being at the rear. 

The stairs terminated in the flagged flooring of another 
long passage, at the end of which was the crypt. 

As Lorelie entered she could not repress a shiver, the 
atmosphere of the place striking her senses with a damp 
chilling effect. 

Ivar, by aid of the light he had carried, proceeded to 
284 


The Secret of the Funeral Crypt 

kindle the lamp pendent from the roof, and every object 
in the chamber became clearly visible. 

At a glance Lorelie took in the whole scene — the 
octagonal crypt, the black velvet curtains draping the 
alcoves, the massive oak table, and the four antique 
carved chairs : everything just as Godfrey had described 
it. 

As her eye fell upon the silver lace edging the lower 
end of a curtain adjacent to the door, her face expressed 
satisfaction, a satisfaction that became instantly lost in a 
very different feeling : for there, on the floor by one of the 
alcoves, was a chest of cypress wood, an object she readily 
identified as the reliquary that had figured so con- 
spicuously in Godfrey’s narration. The lid stood erect 
and she noticed that the contents consisted of a whitish 
powder. 

“ Quicklime ! ” she murmured with a cold thrill. 

Becoming doubly vigilant she sat down in one of the 
chairs and prepared herself for emergencies. 

On the table stood a decanter partly filled with wine, 
and beside it some glasses. Observant of everything 
Lorelie saw that though the smooth surface of the table 
was overlaid with a coating of dust, the display of glass 
exhibited not a trace of it ; evidently the wine was of 
recent introduction — perhaps placed there specially for 
her use. 

“ What ! you have wine here ? Pour me out a glass, 
Ivar.” 

Speaking in the tone of a woman who suspects noth- 
ing she reclined in her seat in a graceful attitude, ex- 
tending a glass towards Ivar, and watching him keenly 
from beneath the lashes of her half-closed eyes. Her 
husband, his face as white as a ghost’s, filled her glass, 
and setting down the decanter, breathed hard. The earl 
looked on with seeming indifference. 

285 


The Viking’s Skull 

With steady motion Lorelie lifted the glass, taking a 
longer time over the action than was necessary, as if even 
the foretaste of drinking were a pleasure not to be 
curtailed. Ivar was watching her with an expression the 
like of which she had never before seen on his face. 

Her lips touched the edge of the glass, and there 
rested a moment : and then, without having tasted the 
wine, she raised the glass and held it between her half- 
closed eyes and the lamp above, an action that displayed 
to the full the beauty of her rounded arm and bust. 

“ How bright and clear it is ! ” she murmured, in a 
softly modulated voice. « By the way,” she added, 
suddenly opening her eyes wide, “ what wine do you 
call this ? ” 

A choice vintage. Malvazia, one of the rarest of the 
Madeiras,” replied the earl. 

Lorelie lowered the glass quickly, in real or feigned 
disappointment. 

0-oh r' she murmured, pouting. “A pity — that! 
I cannot bear Malvazia : it always gives me the headache. 
I must refrain from drinking. — And yet,” she added, 
inhaling the fragrance, “ the bouquet is tempting.” 

She toyed a moment or two with the glass, as if about 
to drink, but finally set it down upon the table, glancing 
at the two men with a silvery laugh. Her radiant air 
contrasted strangely with the sombre spirit which seemed 
to enwrap both of them. 

“ This is a very pretty chamber,” she said, poising her 
head upon her hands, and affecting to survey the crypt 
with interest. “ Nothing very terrible about it, after 
all. I might have spared myself the letter to Dr. Roth- 
well.” 

“ What is that ? ” said the earl, with a quick nervous 
start. 

“ Peccavi / I have done very wrong, I admit,” said 
286 


The Secret of the Funeral Crypt 

Lorelie, with a sweet smile. “ I have ventured to dis- 
obey your command that I should tell nobody of this, 
our midnight adventure : for, as one never knows what 
may happen when visiting the haunts of the dead, I 
could not refrain from communicating with Dr. Rothwell 
on the matter. He is aware of this visit of ours to the 
crypt. Commend my wisdom, my lord, in thus taking 
precautions to secure our safe return.” 

Never did human countenance change so quickly as 
did that of the earl at these words. He glanced at Ivar. 
Dismay was reflected in the eyes of each. 

Here is the note I received from him this afternoon,” 
continued Lorelie imperturbably, drawing forth the com- 
munication and tossing it carelessly upon the table. 
“ You observe his words. ‘ Dear Lady Walden, I give 
you my promise that if I do not meet you at the porch 
of Ravenhall to-morrow morning at eight, I will come 
and seek you in the vault.” 

“ He would have some trouble in finding it,” sneered 
the earl. 

Not at all. Dr. Rothwell knows his way to this 
crypt as well as you or Ivar. He made a secret visit 
here on April the tenth of this year, the night on which 
Ivar returned home from the continent.” 

** Godfrey was at Ravenhall that night,” muttered the 
viscount uneasily. 

** He was here — in this vault, I repeat, at three in the 
morning. And the scene he witnessed was past belief. 
It would do you good, Ivar, to listen to his story. It 
would really interest you ; you, perhaps, more than any 
other person.” 

It is no exaggeration to say that at these words Ivar 
became green with fear. He turned his head from the 
earl in order to conceal his agitation. The secret which 
he had believed to be locked within his own breast was 
287 


The Viking’s Skull 

known to others — was being hinted at in the presence 
of his father, the very person from whom he most desired 
to conceal it. How much did Lorelie know ? What 
would she be saying next ? Words, perhaps, that would 
bring him to ruin. 

** Ivar, I see, is persuaded of the truth of my statement. 
You are more sceptical, my lord, but you shall be con- 
vinced.” 

She detached the velvet bow from her neckband and 
flung it lightly beside Godfrey’s note. 

Cut the threads of that ; unfold the velvet, and you 
will find that its shape corresponds exactly with the 
little rent at the foot of that curtain. It was Dr. Roth- 
well who cut off this piece of velvet, bringing it away 
with him to prove — if proof should ever be required — 
that he has stood in the secret crypt of the Ravengars. 
Do you still doubt me, my lord, or do you require further 
proof?” 

On the contrary he was so certain of the truth of her 
words that he did not attempt to verify them, but stood, 
fingering the velvet bow with a dark expression of coun- 
tenance. 

Looking upon Lorelie as an enemy to be silenced at 
all costs he ' had brought her to this vault intending that 
she should never leave it. Ivar was a reluctant accom- 
plice, his reluctance arising not from any conscientious 
scruples, but from the dangerous consequences attending 
the commission of such a deed. The disappearance of 
the new viscountess on the second day of her coming to 
Ravenhall would be an event that could not fail to bring 
suspicion and inquiry in its train. 

Lorelie had divined their plot, and having taken steps 
for its frustration, had fearlessly accompanied them to the 
destined scene of her death. And here she was, a slender, 
fragile woman, in a lonely situation, with no one to hear 
288 


The Secret of the Funeral Crypt 

her cry for help, in the presence of two men desirous of 
her death, and yet, thanks to her forethought, as safe as 
if attended by an armed escort. 

. Her calm air, her radiant beauty, added fuel to the 
earl’s secret rage. If he had followed his first impulse he 
would have seized her in his arms and twining his fingers 
around her throat have silenced her forever. But pru- 
dence compelled him to refrain from violence. The 
thought of having to face on the morrow the stern in- 
quiring eyes of Godfrey acted as a potent check. 

Fortunately for himself he had not proceeded to the 
length of openly avowing his awful purpose : he was 
therefore free to deny it, if she had any suspicion, as he 
was strongly disposed to believe that she had. Besides, 
what mattered her suspicion ? She had no real proof to 
offer the world. Opposed to her single testimony was 
the joint testimony of himself and her husband. 

He began to breathe freely again. The matter might 
yet end well as regarded his own safety — the only con- 
sideration that troubled him. 

Lorelie, knowing the cause of his mortification, sat at 
ease in her chair, secretly enjoying her triumph. 

At last, feigning to be angry, she exclaimed : — 

“ How silent you are ! Are you going to let me de- 
part from this vault without enlightening me as to its 
mysteries ? Come, Ivar, play the part of cicerone. Draw 
aside the curtain from each alcove, and give me the names 
and biographies of the coffined dead. I am in an his- 
toric genealogic mood.” 

Ivar, not knowing whether to obey, glanced irreso- 
lutely at his father. 

Gratify the curious fool,” the earl muttered moodily. 

With an ill grace at having to obey the wife whom he 
hated, and troubled by a secret foreboding that his guilty 
secret was about to transpire, Ivar approached the alcove 
19 289 


The Viking’s Skull 

nearest the door, and, lifting the velvet drapery, disclosed 
a deep recess, the walls of which were pierced with niches 
containing coffins. 

“ This," he remarked sullenly, touching one, “ is the 
coffin of Lancelot Ravengar, the first earl of Ormsby." 

And so he proceeded from one alcove to another, 
giving the names of the dead peers, his amiability not 
improved by the caustic remarks made by Lprelie. 

“ A dull catalogue of nonentities, unknown to fame," 
she said, when Ivar had finished his recital. “ But I 
observed that you entirely passed over the fourth alcove. 
Why ? Raise the curtain and let me see what it con- 
tains." 

With manifest reluctance the viscount lifted the drapery, 
revealing in the alcove a coffin on trestles. 

“ This is the coffin of Urien Ravengar, my grand- 
father." 

“ In saying that, you of course mean simply that that is 
the name on the plate." 

“ That coffin," broke in the earl in a harsh voice, “ con- 
tains the body of my father, Urien Ravengar." 

“ I do not think so," replied Lorelie quietly. 

In a blaze of wrath the earl turned suddenly upon 
Ivar. 

“ Fool ! what have you been telling this woman ? " 

“ I ? Nothing ! " replied the viscount, shrinking back. 
And seeing disbelief expressed on his father’s face, he 
added, “ Ask her : if she speak truth she will tell you that 
nothing relating to this coffin has passed my lips." 

“Then how — how?" began the earl: then, breaking 
off abruptly, he turned to Lorelie with the question: 
“ Tell me, then, what this coffin does contain ? " 

“ That is what I wish to learn,” she replied coolly. “ It 
is my chief reason for visiting this vault." 

“ You will remain in ignorance." 

290 


The Secret of the Funeral Crypt 

“ I shall depart enlightened. Was it not from that 
coffin, Ivar,” she said, turning to him, “ that you took 
the golden vase you gave me some time ago ? " 

She was drawing a bow at a venture, but the arrow 
found its mark. The sweat glistened on Ivar's forehead. 
He betrayed all the confusion of a guilty person. His 
father eyed him suspiciously. 

‘‘ A golden vase ! ” he exclaimed with a bitter smile. 

Ivar, I must look into that coffin ! ” 

Thus speaking he made his way to the alcove where 
the viscount was standing. Moved by curiosity Lorelie 
also drew near. 

“ Take the screwdriver, and remove the lid,” said Lord 
Ormsby in a stern voice. 

Sullenly and mutely Ivar proceeded to do his father’s 
bidding. 

No one spoke, and nothing disturbed the stillness save 
the crisp revolution of the screwdriver. With folded 
arms and compressed lips the earl stood looking on, an 
expression on his face that boded ill for his son should 
he find his suspicion verified. 

The last screw was loosed, and as Ivar raised the lid 
Lorelie’s eyes instantly closed, dazzled by a thousand 
rays of many-coloured light, shooting up in all direc- 
tions from the coffin, like bright spirits rejoicing to be 
free. 

Putting up her hand to shield her sight from the 
radiance she endeavoured to obtain a clear idea of what 
was before her. 

The coffin, of more than ordinary size, was a veritable 
treasure-chest, filled to the lid with plate and precious 
stones, the latter forming by far the larger part of the 
contents. 

Forgetful of her aversion to the earl, forgetful of her 
recent peril, forgetful of everything but the sight before 
291 


The Viking’s Skull 

her, Lorelie stood with parted lips and dilated eyes, spell- 
bound by the glittering array of wealth. Her knowledge 
of art taught her that the antiquity and workmanship of 
the ornaments far exceeded the intrinsic value of the 
materials composing them. There was a crucifix, formed 
from one entire piece of amber, the plunder of some 
Saxon monastery: an ivory drinking-horn, engraved 
with runic letters, that spoke of the old Norseland : a 
golden lamp, inscribed with a verse from the Koran, 
a relic of Moorish rule in Spain : rare coins, that had 
found their way from the Byzantine treasury. Every 
part of mediaeval Europe had apparently contributed 
some memorial to this store. 

But, as previously stated, the quantity of plate was 
small in comparison with the gems. It was these that 
riveted Lorelie’s attention. Never in any collection of 
crown-jewels had she seen the equal of these stones for 
variety and size, for brilliance and beauty. The richest 
caliph of the East might have envied the possessor of 
such a store. It suggested a dream of the “ Arabian 
Nights.” 

“ Ah ! you may well gaze ! ” cried the earl to Lorelie, 
in a fierce exultant tone. “ Find me the man in Britain 
who owns such wealth as this ! Take every object out 
of the coffin,” he continued, addressing Ivar. Lay 
each and all upon the table. Let Lady Walden handle 
them that she may realize the wealthy match she has 
made.” 

Lorelie quite understood the earl’s motive in making 
this display. Since he could not get rid of her, his only 
other policy was to conciliate her. She smiled disdain- 
fully to herself. It was not to her interest, however, to 
quarrel with him at present : she must simulate friendly 
relations till the purpose for which she had come to 
Ravenhall should be accomplished. 

292 


The Secret of the Funeral Crypt 

“ Yes, let me see everything,” she said in seeming 
eagerness. 

Drawing the table to the entrance of the alcove Ivar 
proceeded to empty the coffin of its contents. During 
this operation Lorelie’s surprise rose almost to fever-heat 
at sight of some of the objects drawn forth. 

When the coffin had been emptied, the earl produced 
a pocketbook containing a list of the treasures. 

“ ‘ Article i,’ ” he read out. “ ‘ Ancient Norse funereal 
urn, of pure gold, set with opals.’ ” 

The viscount handed a vase to his father. 

“ Safe, I see,” said the earl. “ I have been unjust to 
you in thought, Ivar,” he continued, apologetically. 
“ When your wife spoke of a golden vase given her by 
you, my thoughts associated themselves with this. I ac- 
knowledge my error.” 

Ivar cast an anxious look at Lorelie, dreading lest her 
words should lead to the betrayal of his secret. But 
Lorelie said nothing, though in a state of extreme 
amazement and perplexity : for the jewelled vessel now 
in the earl’s hands seemed to be the very vase given to 
her by Ivar some weeks previously — the vase that had 
played so important a part in her hypnotic experiment 
with Beatrice. 

On coming to Ravenhall Lorelie had left it behind her 
at The Cedars : how came it to be here in the vault of 
the Ravengars ? Was it a replica ? If so, it was cer- 
tainly a marvellous imitation of the original, since she 
could detect no points of difference. 

“ Observe the lustre of the opals,” said the earl, his 
eyes gleaming with pleasure ; and Lorelie perceived that 
his love of study, great though it might be, had not 
quenched in him the passion of avarice. An interest- 
ing and precious relic of Norse antiquity, this ! ” con- 
tinued the earl, tapping the urn affectionately. “ It 

293 


The Viking’s Skull 

contains the ashes of Draco the Golden, the founder of 
our family. From the grey dust within this urn all we 
Ravengars have sprung.” 

The vase at The Cedars also held the remains of the 
same Viking, if the story told by Beatrice in her hypnotic 
trance was to be relied upon. The supposition that the 
ashes of Orm had been divided between two urns seemed 
absurd : and yet how otherwise was this mystery to be 
explained, unless indeed Ivar, unknown to her, had paid 
a visit to The Cedars, and having obtained the vase, had 
restored it to the place whence he had originally taken 
it. Unlikely as this last hypothesis might be, it seemed 
the only one capable of meeting the requirements of the 
case. 

The earl, having carefully deposited the urn in one 
corner of the coffin, referred again to his catalogue. 

“ ‘ Article 2. Norse altar-ring of pure silver, inscribed 
with runic characters.’ Yes, this is it,” he continued, re- 
ceiving the article from Ivar’s hand. The ring of Odin, 
that figures in our armorial shield. Many a legend of 
blood clings to this relic. What a history it could unfold, 
were it but endowed with speech I ” 

The golden vase had puzzled Lorelie, but this silver 
relic puzzled her still more. She did not doubt that the 
object before her was the identical ring, the non-produc- 
tion of which at the trial of Eric Marville, was one of the 
points that had told against him. She knew the story of 
its theft from Mrs. Breakspear, and, like Idris, knew not 
whither it had vanished. Now, after all these years, it 
thus reappeared ! By what circuitous route, through 
how many bloodstained hands, had it passed before re- 
gaining its ancient abode ? 

Mechanically she took the ring from the earl's hand. 
If this were indeed the very relic, there should be a black 
mark upon the inner perimeter of the ring. Upon ex- 
294 


The Secret of the Funeral Crypt 

amining it, however, she could discover no stain at all : 
the metal band was bright and unsullied. 

Was this ring, like the vase, a replica : or was there 
truth in the ancient legend that the bloodstain would 
vanish when some one should meet with a violent end as 
an atonement for the slaying of the Norse herald? Cer- 
tain it was that a death had occurred in connection with 
the finding of the treasure. 

With a bewildered air she handed back the ring to the 
earl, who placed it within the coffin beside the vase, and 
turned again to his list. 

“‘Article 3. A sapphire drinking-cup. Weight’ — 
ah ! look at this ! ” he cried, breaking off from his read- 
ing in an ecstasy of delight. “ Look at it ! Handle it ! 
Admire it ! Can the Dresden Gallery produce its like ? ” 

A low and prolonged cry of admiration flowed from 
Lorelie’s lips. The object handed to her by the earl was 
a miniature goblet, the tiny bowl, stem, and stand being 
delicately sculptured from one entire sapphire. It was a 
work of art, as well as a splendid gem. With the de- 
light of a child over a new toy Lorelie raised the gleam- 
ing brilliant aloft, placing it between her eye and the 
light in order to mark its lovely azure transparency. Its 
beauty was such as almost to reconcile her to her lot 
with Ivar. To think if she chose, she might in time to 
come be the joint-possessor of such a jem ! 

“ A million of money would not buy that cup,” cried 
the earl, watching her look of admiration. “ It belonged 
originally to the great Caliph, Abderahman the Second, 
and was taken by Draco and his Vikings at the sacking 
of the Moorish palace at Seville. It vanished from hu- 
man ken, and has lain hidden in a night of ten centuries. 
The lapidaries of the present age scoff at its description 
in history, believing the gem to be the creation of Ara- 
bian fancy : but here it is, existing to-day, to confute 
295 


The Viking’s Skull 

their shallow scepticism. Were this gem known to 
the world it would take the title of * The Queen of 
Sapphires.’ ” 

Charmed beyond the power of words to describe, 
Lorelie turned the cup slowly round, flashing the light 
from a hundred facets : and then — and then — she made 
a discovery. A minute air-bubble was faintly visible in 
the crystalline azure ! 

She glanced at the earl. His triumphant face showed 
that he had not the least inkling of the truth. She 
looked at Ivar, who happened at this moment to be 
standing behind his father. The sudden change in Lore- 
lie’s countenance assured the viscount of the fact of her 
discovery : and now, he, the coward who had been will- 
ing to take her life, was appealing to her by gesture and 
expression to keep her knowledge a secret from his 
father. 

For that which gave the earl such pride was in truth 
nothing but an artificial gem, a marvellous imitation 
of the real thing, but still merely a piece of coloured 
glass ! 

Lorelie became more perplexed than ever at this dis- 
covery. How came Ivar to know that the gem was 
false, and why was he so anxious to conceal the truth 
from his father ? 

Then in a moment everything became clear. 

Always pressed for money, and precluded by his 
father’s parsimony from obtaining it, Ivar had formed 
the plan of appropriating a certain portion of the plate 
and gems contained in the coffin. To secure himself 
from detection he had artfully replaced the originals by 
clever facsimiles, fabricated on the continent by gold- 
smiths and glass-workers of the class who would ask no 
inconvenient questions provided that they were well paid 
for their work. To obtain the necessary counterfeits Ivar 
296 


The Secret of the Funeral Crypt 

must have conveyed the originals to the continent, a very 
hazardous thing to do, seeing that if the earl had paid a 
visit of inspection to the treasure during his son’s ab- 
sence, discovery would have been inevitable. The 
counterfeits being completed, Ivar had brought them 
concealed in the reliquary to Ravenhall, and had trans- 
ferred them to the coffin, his remark while doing so — 
the remark overheard by Godfrey — to wit, “ I hope 
Lorelie will be satisfied,” being doubtless drawn from him 
by the fact that Lorelie was often making monetary 
demands upon him, a fact which she herself would be 
the first to admit, though she little dreamed of the means 
taken by him to supply her costly tastes. She could not 
avoid the feeling that, to some extent, she was responsible- 
for Ivar’s peculations : and, therefore, compliant with his 
wish, she kept silent, and permitted the earl to remain in 
his ignorance. 

The contents of the coffin were a mixture of the gen- 
uine and the spurious. The altar-ring was the genuine 
article : it would not have paid for the trouble of counter- 
feiting. The jewelled vase was spurious : on glancing 
again at this last, Lorelie wondered how she could have 
taken the metal for gold : it now seemed to her eyes 
merely like common bronze. The “ sapphire cup ” was 
but worthless glass: she almost sighed at the thought 
that the lovely original should have been exchanged for 
current coin of the realm. The selling of such a gem 
was an act little short of sacrilege. 

Well may you linger over it ! ” cried the earl, think- 
ing that her long retention of the cup was the result of 
admiration. Such a gem as that is too lovely for earth, 
too precious even for an empress to drink from.” 

But not for a Ravengar, surely ? ” said Lorelie. 

And taking up the decanter she filled the azure cup 
with wine, and held it out to him. 

297 


The Viking’s Skull 

Drink, my lord,” she said smiling, and recalling his 
own words, ** ‘ Tis of a choice vintage, one of the rarest 
of the Madeiras.’ ” 

But from that cup the earl recoiled as from the sum- 
mons of Death himself. 

“ Why, you start as though ’twere poison,” laughed 
Lorelie. “ Will you not drink, Ivar ? ” she added, turn- 
ing to the viscount and offering him the cup. What ! 
and do you, too, shrink from a few drops of innocent 
Malvazia ? refuse the honour of drinking from the great 
Abderahman's cup ? the caliph’s own, veritable, genuine, 
historic cup ! you understand ? ” 

He did — fully. Stepping forward, she said in a fierce 
thrilling whisper : — 

** How much is your life worth, if I let your father 
know that this cup is but a piece of coloured glass ? ” 

It was not in Lorelie’s nature to take pleasure in 
another’s pain ; yet on the present occasion the despair 
and fear expressed in Ivar’s eyes was a luxury to her, al- 
most compensating for his attempt on her life. 

“ It was for your sake I did it,” he muttered with white 
lips. 

Contemptuously turning away from him, she said : — 

“ Well, then, if neither will drink, I, too, shall refuse. 
I will imitate those excellent examples, my husband and 
father. Let us be classical and pour out a libation. 
Here’s to the great Archfiend himself, the author and 
giver of the treasure, for Heaven, I am convinced, has 
had little to do with it.” 

She inverted the cup : but, either by accident or de- 
sign, the greater part of the liquid fell in splashes upon 
her dress, very few drops reaching the floor. 

On reaching her bedroom Lorelie’s first care was to 
lock the door : her next, to cut from her dress every por- 
298 


The Secret of the Funeral Crypt 

tion stained with wine. These fragments of cloth she 
placed in a glass phial, steeping them in water. Then 
the spirit that had sustained her through the long and 
terrible ordeal gave way, and reeling forward she fell 
heavily across the bed. 


299 


CHAPTER XVIII 


A CRANIOLOGICAL EXPERIMENT 

I DRIS BREAKSPEAR strolled slowly to and fro 
beneath the lime-trees in the garden of Wave Crest, 
reading for the twentieth time a letter received by 
him the previous evening. 

Accompanying the letter was a note worded thus : — 
“ The enclosed speaks for itself. Can you ever forgive 
me for my seven years’ silence? — Lorelie Rochefort.” 

The missive forwarded to Idris was her mother’s con- 
fession relative to the murder of M. Duchesne, a confes- 
sion which, it need scarcely be said, overwhelmed Idris 
with amazement. 

The hope entertained by him during so many long 
years was at last realized : it was now within his power 
to clear his father’s memory ; but the knowledge brought 
with it as much pain as pleasure, for to establish his 
father’s innocence was to bring ignominy upon the name 
of the woman he loved. 

A soft footfall attracted his attention, and raising his 
eyes from the letter he saw Lady Walden herself. Sadly 
and timidly she stood, obviously in doubt as to the sort 
of reception she would meet with. To face the reproach- 
ful eyes of Idris was a more trying ordeal than that of 
accompanying the earl to the terrible vault. 

She was the first to speak. 

“ You are reading my mother’s letter, I perceive. You 
know now that it was my father and not yours that mur- 
dered Duchesne. I have come,” she faltered, I have 
come to ask, yet scarcely daring to ask, whether you can 
300 


A Craniological Experiment 

forgive me for maintaining silence hitherto. I have 
longed to tell you the truth, but have been afraid. Do 
not,” she added, breathlessly, do not reproach me. You 
cannot reproach me more than my own conscience 
has.” 

The look of sorrow in her eyes instantly effaced from 
Idris’ mind all resentment for his father’s wrongs. The 
oath sworn to his mother in childhood’s days became for^ 
gotten. 

“ Lady Walden,” he replied, “ if there be anything on 
my part to forgive, I freely forgive. I cannot blame you 
for seeking to shield your father’s name.” 

The look of gratitude that came over her face thrilled 
Idris, who would gladly have forgiven her ten times as 
much for such a glance as she now gave him. 

She had expected to be treated with coldness, if not 
with anger by Idris, instead of which she received from 
him the same tender respect as heretofore. She trembled 
with secret pleasure to think that she still held a place 
in his regard. 

And now you know the truth, you will publish it to 
the world,” she said. 

I think not,” he replied, speaking slowly and thought- 
fully. “No, I am sure I shall not.” 

“You will not redeem your father’s memory from 
guilt ? ” said Lorelie, with a little gasp of surprise. “ Why 
not?” 

“ Because the fair name of Lady Walden must not be 
darkened by the shadow of the past.” 

Her eyes drooped. She had no need to ask why he 
was desirous of shielding her name from reproach, know- 
ing full well that it was from love of her. 

“ But this — this is not just,” she said in a low voice. 

“ To proclaim the truth would injure the living,” he 
replied, “ without in any way benefiting the dead.” 

301 


The Viking’s Skull 

“ It is not right,” she declared, “ that your father and 
you should bear the stigma that belongs to me and mine. 
I will proclaim the truth myself.” 

Lady Walden, if it be your desire to please me, you 
will maintain silence. But pardon my discourtesy, you 
are standing all this time.” 

He led her to a garden>seat, and took his place beside 
her. 

“ You once asked me,” said Lorelie, to let you read 
my father’s correspondence. I have brought his letters 
with me. They are here.” 

She held out a packet of letters. 

“ Will you not read them to me. Lady Walden? You 
can then omit what you think necessary.” 

“ I have no wish to conceal anything contained in 
them,” she answered, placing the letters in his hand. 
“ But before you read, let me forestall and correct an 
erroneous impression you may be likely to draw from 
them. Guided partly by these letters, partly by other 
considerations, I have, till a few days ago, entertained the 
belief that the Earl of Ormsby was none other than — 
your father, Eric Marville.” 

Despite his desire to be serious Idris could not refrain 
from smiling at this statement. 

“ And what has led you to discard this extraordinary 
theory ? ” he asked. 

I was glancing yesterday over a copy of an old 
French newspaper — L Etoile de la Bretagne — in which 
is given a full description of your father as he appeared 
at his trial in the Palais de Justice. Now in this account 
Eric Marville is described as having very dark eyes, 
whereas Lord Ormsby’s eyes are light grey in colour.” 

“ Which deprives me of the honour of claiming an 
earl as my father,” said Idris, with an air of mock disap- 
pointment. 


302 


A Craniological Experiment 

“ I do not think you will esteem it much of an honour 
when you hear what I have to say. But, first, will you 
not read these letters ? ” 

Idris, though much surprised by her words, made no 
further comment, but turned to the correspondence of 
Captain Rochefort. 

Lorelie had arranged the letters in chronological order, 
and Idris began his perusal, becoming more interested 
with each successive missive. When he had finished 
reading he looked extremely grave, and said : — 

“ The final letters, interpreted by what we know to 
have taken place within Ormfell, would almost seem to 
suggest — how shall I say it? — that your father was 
killed by mine ! " 

“ That at first was my belief, but I know now it cannot 
have been.” 

“ I trust that you are right. But why cannot it have 
been ? ” 

“ Beatrice in her hypnotic trance recognized the face 
of the assassin. But she has never seen either your father 
or mine. Therefore we cannot impute the murder to 
either of these.” 

True ! ” replied Idris, with a sudden feeling of relief. 

But tell me. Lady Walden, what face did she see, for I 
am convinced that you know.” 

“ If,” she replied evasively, if we can discover the 
present possessor of the Viking’s treasure, we shall obtain 
a strong clue to the assassin ? ” 

“ Undoubtedly.” 

“ Well, then, the Viking’s treasure is at Ravenhall, 
concealed in the secret vault.” 

And she proceeded to intensify Idris’ surprise by re- 
lating the incident of her visit to the crypt, saying noth- 
ing, however, as to the earl’s purpose in taking her 
thither. 


303 


The Viking’s Skull 

“ Who placed the treasure there ? ” asked Idris. 

“ Four persons only have had access to this vault — 
the earl, Viscount Walden, the family solicitor, and the 
Rector of Ormsby. The two latter we can at once dis- 
miss from our list of ‘ suspects.’ ” 

Idris turned a startled face upon Lorelie. 

‘‘ Surely you would not have me charge your husband 
— your father-in-law, with murder!” 

“ I strongly suspect the latter from the perturbed air 
manifested by him when I once hinted at my knowledge 
of the crime.” 

“The grave and dignified earl the author of such a 
deed ! Impossible I ” 

“ Not more impossible than that my own father should 
be a murderer 1 ” 

Idris started at her bitter tone. Truly the Fates had 
dealt hardly with her in the matter of kinsfolk. Those 
ladies of Ormsby who were disposed to envy Madem- 
oiselle Riviere her new rank would have had little cause 
for envy could they have seen into her mind at that 
moment. 

“ I have found,” continued Lorelie, “ the very instru- 
ment with which the deed was wrought. It is here.” 

As she spoke she produced a jewelled hat-pin shaped 
like a stiletto, the steel blade being broken off short at the 
hilt. 

“ This belonged to the late Countess of Ormsby, in 
whose jewel-case it has lain for over 'twenty years : at 
least, so the old housekeeper declares. The blade was 
broken a short time before the death of the countess, and 
has never been repaired.” 

“ Does the housekeeper give any account of how the 
steel came to be broken ? ” 

“ She tells a very significant story. The countess lost 
this stiletto when walking in the park one day. On dis- 

304 


A Craniological Experiment 

covering her loss she immediately set the servants to look 
for it, but their search was unavailing. Next morning, 
however, the earl returned the hat-pin to the countess, 
saying that while taking a walk by moonlight he had 
found it in its broken condition. 

“ Now my belief is that the earl, having discovered 
that Ormfell was the site of a buried treasure, was pro- 
ceeding thither at night, either alone or attended by a 
servant, for the purpose of opening the hillock, and while 
on his way through the park he chanced to light upon 
his wife’s hat-pin. Naturally he did not leave it lying 
upon the ground, but picked it up and placed it upon his 
person. And this is the weapon with which he attacked 
the other man, whoever he may have been, that was 
with him in the hillock. When the countess next 
morning received back her hat-pin from her husband, she 
little knew of the terrible use to which it had been put.” 

“ Your theory, if correct, proves that the deed was un- 
premeditated, otherwise the earl would have gone pro- 
vided with a more efficient weapon. Do you know the 
date of the countess’s death ? ” 

“ She died in the autumn of ’77.” 

“ Then the crime must have taken place more than 
twenty-one years ago.” 

Idris fell to thinking : and the result of his thought 
was that it would be an ungrateful task to bring to jus- 
tice an aged peer for a crime committed more than 
twenty years ago. For all he knew to the contrary the 
deed might have been a case of justifiable homicide : the 
earl had perhaps been compelled to slay the other in 
self-defence. Besides, was he not Lorelie’s father-in- 
law ? If ignominy fell upon the House of Ravengar it 
must fall likewise upon her. No breath of scandal must 
touch her name. Idris felt that his hands were tied : he 
could make no move in the matter. 

305 


20 


The Viking’s Skull 

“We know the author of the deed, it seems,” he mur- 
mured, “ but the identity of the victim still remains a 
mystery. Who was he ? ” 

“ That is a problem I am trying to solve.” 

“ And you say the Viking’s treasure is in the crypt of 
Ravenhall ? What is Lord Ormsby’s object in keeping 
it concealed ? ” 

“ I can but guess. Treasure-trove, as you know, is 
the property of the Crown ; therefore the earl, on finding 
it, was compelled to act circumspectly. The sudden 
acquisition of a vast quantity 6f plate and jewels might 
have given rise to awkward questions on the part of the 
steward, and especially on the part of Lanfranc, the Raven- 
hall solicitor, a man somewhat given to suspicion. The 
earl was therefore obliged to secrete his ill-acquired 
wealth : and this he did by placing it within one of the 
coffins in the crypt, gratifying his avarice by occasional 
visits of inspection. ‘ That is my theory, but of course I 
may be wrong.” 

“ Mortifying that he should have to secrete it,” re- 
marked Idris, “ when if the story of the runic ring be 
true, the wealth is his by hereditary right, as the eldest 
lineal descendant of Orm the Viking.” ‘ 

“ Mr. Breakspear, your right to that treasure is greatei* 
than the earl’s.” 

Idris was disposed to think so, too, in virtue of the 
long years he had spent in his attempts to decipher the 
runic ring. But this was not what Lorelie meant. 

“ Did you not notice what my father says in one of 
these letters, that Eric Marville claimed to be heir to a 
peerage ? ” 

“ It did not escape me. A surprising statement, if true.” 

“ And the interest taken by your father in the runic 
ring, the heirloom of the Ravengars, proves his peerage 
to have been the Earldom of Ormsby.” 

306 


A Craniological Experiment 

“ I fear you are dealing in fanciful hypotheses/' smiled 
Idris. 

“ Your likeness to the family portraits of the Raven- 
gars is very remarkable.” 

“ Mere coincidence.” 

“ Not so. It is as certain that you are the rightful Earl 
of Ormsby as it is that the sun is shining.” 

“ But how ? In what way ? ” cried Idris, impressed, in 
spite of himself, by her air of conviction. 

“ That I cannot tell. I am trying to find out.” 

“ I thank you. Lady Walden, for interesting yourself 
in my fortunes, but supposing that your surmise should 
prove correct — what then ? ” 

“ You will take the title and station that are rightfully 
yours.” 

“ And, by so doing, deprive you of your position ? 
No, Lady Walden, I cannot do that. If, as is implied 
by your words, you are seeking to prove that I have a 
claim to the Earldom of Ormsby, I would ask you to 
desist. Let matters be as they are. I am quite content 
to remain plain Idris Breakspear, and to leave to you the 
coronet of the Ravengars. I do not believe that I am 
of noble birth, but in any case I will do nothing detri- 
mental to your position.” 

“ My position ! ” thought Lorelie, bitterly, as she re- 
called the attempt made upon her life. “ Heaven help 
me to escape from my position ! But,” she said, aloud, 
“ you are doing a wrong to your future wife. She may 
not appreciate the generosity that deprives her of a 
coronet.” 

My future wife ! ” smiled Idris. “ I shall never marry.” 

And why not ? ” 

** They do not love who love twice.” 

Lorelie, knowing his meaning, trembled, miserable and 
happy at one and the same time. 

307 


The Viking’s Skull 

** I am glad,” he continued, “ to have this opportunity 
of saying good-bye. Lady Walden, for I leave England 
soon, probably forever.” 

Lorelie received this news with dismay. Whether the 
feeling of pleasure derivable from Idris’ friendship was a 
right or a wrong feeling she had never stopped to in- 
quire, but it was a pleasure, and a sense of desolation 
fell upon her on hearing that she was to enjoy it no 
longer. 

“ A friend of mine has received a secret commission 
from the Indian Government to explore Tibet, the tour 
to include the forbidden city of Lassa. I have agreed to 
accompany him.” 

Lorelie was not ignorant of the perils attending such 
an enterprise. 

“ You will never return,” she cried. 

So much the better,” he answered quietly. 

She glanced at him for a moment, and then her eyes 
fell, for she understood him. Involuntarily her mind was 
led to contrast the husband, who had sought to take her 
life, with Idris, so anxious to keep her name fair before 
the world : Idris, whose love was such that he was will- 
ing to sacrifice everything — even his life — for her sake ! 
She could not hide the tears glistening beneath her 
lashes. The situation was a trying one for both, but 
fortunately at this moment a third person appeared on 
the scene. 

Beatrice emerged from the garden-porch, and Lorelie, 
averting her head, essayed to remove the traces of tears 
from her eyes. 

Beatrice gave her visitor a glad greeting, but there was 
a subdued air about her, due, as Lorelie knew, to sorrow 
at the thought of Idris’ departure. 

Has Mr. Breakspear told you that he is going to 
leave us ? ” she asked, and receiving an affirmative, she 
308 


A Craniological Experiment 

continued mournfully : — “As this is perhaps the last 
time we shall be together you must stay with us as long 
as you can. We are just about to have luncheon. Will 
you not join us ? ” 

Lorelie readily assented, and went up-stairs with Bea- 
trice to remove her hat and mantle. 

“ You are not looking very well, Lady Walden.” 

“ No, Beatrice. And I shall never be well again.” 

Something in her tone went to Beatrice’s heart : she 
guessed that Lorelie’s unhappiness arose from Ivar’s ill- 
treatment of her. 

The beauti/ul face was suffused by an expression so 
miserable that Beatrice, the maiden of eighteen, in- 
voluntarily drew the married woman of twenty-three 
within her arms and kissed her consolingly, as though 
the viscountess were a little child. And Lorelie, glad of 
such sympathy, clung to Beatrice’s embrace. 

“ Beatrice,” she said presently, “ if you should hear 
that I have slipped from a battlement on the roof of 
Ravenhall and dislocated my neck, or that I have lost 
my life by falling into the lake in the park, remember 
that this event will not have happened by accident.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” gasped Beatrice, thinking that 
Lorelie was contemplating suicide. 

“ Let your brother say whether I am wrong. Did he 
analyze the contents of the phial that I sent him ? ” 

“He said that the water contained — I forget how 
many grains of strychnine,” replied Beatrice, inno- 
cently. 

“ Then I was right,” said Lorelie, with a face as white 
as death. “ O, Beatrice, the earl and Ivar tried to poison 
me!” 

“ Lady Walden, how dare you say that ? ” said Bea- 
trice, with a burst of indignation. 

It was against Ravengars that Lorelie’s charge was 

309 


The Viking’s Skull 

made, and Beatrice suddenly remembered that she her- 
self was a Ravengar. Bad as Ivar might be she could 
not believe him capable of murder : and as for the earl, 
had he not always treated her with kindness ? 

But when Lorelie began to relate the incident of her 
visit to the crypt, Beatrice’s scepticism slowly vanished, 
and she listened with a growing horror upon her face. 
And when the story was ended, she sat cold and trem- 
bling, unable at first to speak. 

“ Are they aware that you suspected their design ? ” 
she asked. 

“ I do not think so. I continue to speak and act as if 
I have every confidence in them.” 

“ How can you bear to live with them ? What they 
have attempted once they may attempt again. How can 
you trust yourself at the same table with them ? ” 

“ By eating of the dishes of which they eat ; they are 
not likely to poison themselves. I must remain at 
Ravenhall till I have accomplished my task.” 

And what is that ? ” 

To obtain proofs of Mr. Breakspear’s right to the 
earldom : for, Beatrice, I have reasons for believing that 
he is the rightful Earl of Ormsby.” 

And Lorelie proceeded to repeat the arguments she 
had addressed to Idris, with some others in addition. 

“ Have you told Mr. Breakspear this ? ” said Beatrice, 
breathless with excitement. 

“ Yes, and he refuses to move in the matter.” 

But we will make him,” cried Beatrice, impulsively. 
« We will persuade him to give up this mad journey to 
Tibet. Lady Walden ” 

“ Do not recall my unhappiness by using that name : 
besides it is not justly mine. Call me Lorelie.” 

“ Lorelie, then. I will come to Ravenhall and live 
there with you.” 


310 


A Craniological Experiment 

Lorelie’s smile was like sunlight sweeping over a dark 
landscape. 

“ If anything could make me happy it would be your 
daily companionship, dearest Beatrice.” 

“ It is not safe for you to live alone at Ravenhall,” 
continued Beatrice. “ I will return with you to keep 
watch and ward over you. Together we will work and 
make what discoveries we can. If Idris really be the 
owner of Ravenhall we will do our best to establish him 
in his rights.” 

The light of justice shone from Beatrice’s eyes. There 
should be a righting of the wrong. Since the earl and 
Ivar had not hesitated at murder, let them suffer the 
punishment due to their guilt by losing their rank and 
estates. 

“ And when that is done,” said Lorelie, it will be for 
me to retire to a convent, and for Idris to place a coronet 
on these tresses,” she added, touching Beatrice’s hair. 

“ Ah, no ! ” replied Beatrice, sadly. “ He will not 
marry me. Idris never loved any one but you. It is 
impossible for him to have you, yet he will never love 
any one else.” 

Lorelie was touched to the quick by Beatrice’s look of 
distress. She felt that if she herself had not appeared 
upon the scene, Beatrice might now be happy in the love 
of Idris. 

“ Beatrice, believe me, I would gladly die if my death 
would enable you to gain his love.” 

Beatrice did not doubt the sincerity of this assurance. 
Brave-hearted and generous the little maiden harboured 
no resentment against her rival. 

He will come to you some day,” said Lorelie, kissing 
the other tenderly. “ He has been with you long enough 
to know your worth. He will find a want of something 
in his life when he is away from you. He will begin to 

311 


The Viking's Skull 

ask himself what it is. ‘ It is Beatrice/ his heart will 
answer : and he will return to seek you.” 

Beatrice shook her head, refusing to believe in this 
bright forecast. 

Have you told Idris of the attempt made upon your 
life ? ” she asked. 

No.” 

‘‘ We shall be doing well not to tell him of it. He is 
hot-blooded where your welfare is concerned : his rage 
would lead him to horsewhip both the earl and Ivar, or 
to do something equally rash. It is for us to mete out 
the punishment. We will do it more circumspectly. 
We will lull them into a false state of security, and then, 
when they least expect it ” 

What more she would have said was cut short by God- 
frey who, standing at the foot of the staircase, asked 
whether he and Idris were or were not to have the so- 
ciety of the ladies at luncheon ; and thus adjured the two 
went down to the dining-room. 

Godfrey was much struck with Lorelie’s pallid look, 
and determined, before letting her depart, to take a diag- 
nosis of her state, and prescribe accordingly. 

Though full of wonder when Beatrice began to tell 
him of her intention to live at Ravenhall as Lorelie’s 
companion, he made no objection, surmising that there 
was a mystery somewhere, and that she had good reason 
for the course she was taking. 

« I shall be sorry to lose you, Trixie,” he remarked. 

“ It is only for a time,” replied his sister. 

By the way,” said Godfrey, turning to address Idris, 
“ I attended an old gentleman yesterday, one enthusiast- 
ically devoted to botany, and a little ‘ touched/ I fancy, 
over his favourite pursuit. He told me among other 
matters that he had once sown some mandrake seeds on 
the northern side of Ormfell with a view of learning 
312 


A Craniological Experiment 

whether the plant would outlive the rigours of our 
Northumbrian winter. Great was his indignation to find 
one day that the plant had been wilfully plucked up by 
the roots. I did not tell him that I could give the names 
of the guilty persons, but contented myself with suggesting 
that the renewal of his botanic experiment might have 
more success if confined to the limits of his own garden.” 

“ Ah ! then there is one mystery cleared up,” observed 
Idris. 

“ But there are others,” remarked Lorelie, “ which you 
are leaving behind unsolved. Cannot you persuade Mr. 
Breakspear,” she added, turning to Godfrey, to abandon 
his expedition ? ” 

“ O, Idris will come back safely,” cheerfully responded 
the surgeon, who did not view the enterprise with the 
same fears as the ladies. He will return covered with 
glory. He will have added a valuable chapter to geo- 
graphical science, and will of course write a book.” 

** Of surprising dulness,” interjected Idris. 

Of surpassing interest,” corrected Godfrey. “ I 
wonder you never took to authorship, for you have what 
I classify as the literary head.” 

Don’t ! My vanity is great enough already.” 

‘‘Did you not know that Godfrey is an expert in 
phrenology ? ” asked Beatrice. 

“ Not till this moment. But the news comes very op- 
portunely. Man, know thyself! Godfrey, give me an 
introduction to Idris Breakspear. Manipulate my cra- 
nium, and let me have a true account of my character. 
Be critical, and spare not ! ” 

And Godfrey, responsive to Idris’ humour, proceeded 
to make a study of his head. 

“ Take my note-book, Miss Ravengar,” smiled Idris, 
pushing it towards her, “ and record my wicked charac- 
teristics. Now, Godfrey, begin.” 

313 


The Viking’s Skull 

** Amativeness/’ said the doctor, placing his finger-tips 
beneath Idris’ ears, while Beatrice laughingly wrote the 
word. 

“ You begin alphabetically, do you ? ” remarked Idris. 
“ Amativeness : that, being interpreted, meaneth love — 
of — of the ladies generally. That organ is very large, 
of course ? ” 

“ No. Fairly large.” 

“ O, come, you must be making a mistake. Feel 
again ! It’s a libel to limit my amatory sentiment to 
‘ fairly large ’ only.” 

“ I put it down as seven,” replied Godfrey. 

What’s the highest figure to which you ascend ? ” 

“ Nine — in my system.” 

“ And I do not attain the top figure ? Can’t you make 
it eight, or at least seven and three-quarters ? ” 

“ The pupil must not dictate to the master,” said 
Beatrice. 

“ Combativeness,” Godfrey went on, his fingers ascend- 
ing slightly. 

“ Combativeness,” repeated Idris : ** readiness to fight 
for — for the ladies. Don’t say that isn’t large.” 

“ It is. Very large indeed.” 

“ Good ! There may be some truth in phrenology 
after all. Put ‘ combativeness ’ down as nine, Miss 
Ravengar. Go on, Godfrey! Next item, please I ” 

So amid Idris’ badinage Godfrey proceeded with his 
statements, all of which Beatrice laughingly wrote down. 
Presently a grave expression stole over Godfrey’s face, 
and before he had ended his task the expression had be- 
come one of doubt and perplexity. Both Lorelie and 
Beatrice noticed it. Idris, however, was precluded by 
his position from seeing Godfrey’s look. 

Well, now, this is very pleasant reading,” said Idris 
banteringly, receiving his pocketbook from Beatrice, and 

314 


A Craniological Experiment 

glancing over what she had written. “ I feel as a returned 
spirit may be supposed to feel when he peruses the virtues 
inscribed on his tombstone and fails to recognize himself. 
Such a character as this, duly attested and signed ‘ G. 
Rothwell, M. D.,' ought to procure me a free pass to any 
part of Tibet.” 

He began to talk of his intended expedition, and a 
trifling argument arising between himself and Godfrey 
relative to some point of Tibetan geography, Beatrice, as 
if to settle the dispute, wickedly despatched Idris to the 
library for a book that she knew he would not find 
there. 

As soon as he had vanished through the doorway she 
turned to her brother. 

“ Godfrey, why did you look so serious while studying 
Idris’ head?” 

“ Did I look serious ? ” 

“Did you look ? Just listen to him, Lorelie! 

Don’t equivocate. You have discovered something : I 
know you have. Something that troubles you. What 
is it ? Didn’t Idris’ character impress you favourably ? ” 

“ Idris’ character is exactly as I gave it.” 

“ Then why look as if he were an ogre ? ” 

“ It is but twenty-four hours since I examined another 
head.” 

“ Whose ? ” 

“ You shall learn presently. Here is the result of my 
study of * Nemo! as I call him.” 

He drew out his own pocketbook and directed Bea- 
trice’s attention to a certain page headed “ Character of 
Nemo” 

Very much puzzled, Beatrice conned his notes, but had 
not proceeded very far before she snatched up Idris’ 
pocketbook and began to compare the remarks in each. 

“ ^ Amativeness — seven. Combativeness — nine,’ ” she 

315 


The Viking’s Skull 

murmured, reading the list of characteristics. “Why, 
there is no difference between them,” she exclaimed. 
“ Idris and your * Nemo ’ have heads exactly alike.” 

“ The very thought that struck me just now.” 

“ Who is this * Nemo' f ” 

“ That is what I wish to know.” 

“ Didn’t the man give you his name, then ? ” 

“ I didn’t ask him for it.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ He wouldn’t have told me if I had.” 

“ He wished to remain incognito ? ” 

“ He didn’t give verbal expression to that effect in fact 
he had lost the power of speaking.” 

“ Was he dumb, then ? ” 

“ Very much so.” 

“ O, Godfrey, do be explicit, and speak so that we can 
understand.” 

“ Truth to tell, the man was dead ! ” 

Beatrice gave a little scream. 

“ And his head reposes in that cabinet,” continued 
Godfrey. 

“You mean the Viking’s skull?” 

“ You’ve hit the mark.” 

“ But what — what ? ” 

“ What made me desirous of learning the character of 
the man to whom the skull belonged ? A passing whim 
— nothing more. As I was casually opening the cabinet 
yesterday the skull caught my eye. ‘ Come ! ’ said I, 
* let me see the sort of fellow you were when alive.* 
And this,” added Godfrey, tapping his note-book, “ this 
is the result. Idris spends long years in deciphering a 
runic inscription on an ancient ring : acting on the vague 
hints furnished by it he undertakes an expedition to 
Ormfell, obtaining as his reward a skull whose phreno- 
logical development corresponds exactly with his own. 
316 


A Craniological Experiment 

He was quite right in his opinion that the Viking’s tomb 
would contain a clue towards solving his father’s fate, for 
it is my firm belief that the skull in that cabinet is none 
other than the skull of Eric Marville ! ” 


317 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE SKULL 

V ISCOUNT WALDEN'S twenty-first birthday 
was drawing near, and Ravenhall was making 
grand preparations for the occasion. Invitations 
were issued to the local magnates and their families — 
invitations eagerly accepted, for everybody was curious 
to see both the earl, who had so long secluded himself 
from society, and the new viscountess, whose secret mar- 
riage had invested her with a romantic interest. Enter- 
tainment of various kinds was provided, for the earl’s 
guests, as well as for the tenantry of his estates, the day 
to terminate in a grand ball, preceded by the performance 
of a poetic drama, written by Lady Walden, and entitled 
The Fatal Skull, a drama in which the authoress herself 
was to take the leading role. The other dramatis personce 
were drawn from a select circle of Ormsby society, and 
their frequent rehearsals filled Ravenhall with a mirth 
and a gaiety not known in that gloomy mansion for 
many years. Lorelie took upon herself the office of 
stage-directress, and flung herself heart and soul into the 
work. She was ably seconded by Beatrice Ravengar, 
who, to the surprise of everybody in Ormsby, had left 
her brother Godfrey in order to be the companion of the 
new viscountess. A number of carpenters and scene- 
shifters from London had transformed the great hall of 
the castle into a suitable stage and auditorium. Scenic 
artists were busy at the canvas. Money was freely lav- 
ished upon the appropriate theatrical costumes. A lead- 
ing society-paper had asked for, and had obtained, the 

318 


The Vengeance of the Skull 

favour of having a reporter present to record the day's 
doings ; in short, everything had been done to ensure 
success, and the amateur actors looked forward to the 
event with a pleasurable zest. 

The great day came at last, as sunny and fair as could 
be desired. The earl moved about among his guests and 
tenantry with a dignified courtesy, bestowing ‘ nods and 
becks and wreathed smiles ' on all sides, in a manner sur- 
prising to those who had hitherto regarded him as a sort 
of gloomy Manfred. 

Ivar was on excellent terms with himself : he flirted 
with the ladies, and patronized the young men with a 
truly lordly air. A descendant of a noble house: heir to 
a splendid estate : husband of a wife whose loveliness and 
literary abilities were the theme of universal praise — 
what more could he desire ? Indifferent himself to Lore- 
lie’s charms he was not displeased to witness the admi- 
ration they excited in others. She was a part of his 
property, as it were : it was but fitting that she should 
receive her tribute of praise along with the other items of 
the Ravengar estate. 

Lady Walden made an ideal hostess, and the guests 
whispered in secret that if the rumour were true that her 
own family was not of the highest, her beauty and 
sprightliness amply compensated for the deficiency. 
From her manner one would have thought her the hap- 
piest lady in the county. Once only did she give evi- 
dence of the real feeling that lay masked beneath her 
pleasant exterior, and that was when the Mayor of 
Ormsby, standing upon the flight of steps leading up to the 
grand entrance of Ravenhall, read a long address to Ivar, 
congratulating him on the attainment of his majority, and 
expressing the hope that both the viscount and his lady 
might long live to enjoy their exalted rank. At this 
Lorelie’s lips curved for a moment into a bitter smile, and 

319 


The Viking’s Skull 

she cast a significant glance at Beatrice, who was seldom 
absent from her side that day. To those who noted the 
smile it recurred with peculiar force upon the morrow. 

With the coming of twilight Beatrice stole away from 
the company to a private portion of the park, taking her 
course towards a little gateway in the western wall. 
Near this gate was a wooden bench, and seating herself 
upon it she drew forth a telegram and glanced at the 
message it contained, which was singularly brief : — 

Will be at the place appointed by seven o’clock.” 

The sender of this telegram was punctual to the 
minute. St. Oswald’s Church clock was chiming the hour 
when there came a knocking at the wicket-gate. In- 
stantly unlocking it Beatrice threw it open, and stood face 
to face with Idris Breakspear. 

She greeted him with an air which Idris intuitively felt 
to be a foreboding of grave things. 

“ On the point of sailing for India,” he observed, “ I 
received a letter from Miss Ravengar bidding me return 
at once to Ormsby. Such a message cannot be ignored, 
and therefore I am here. And the question is, * Why am 
I here?”’ 

I have not sent for you without cause. It is your 
duty to follow me, to ask no questions, but to await de- 
velopments.” 

“ And where are you taking me ? ” he asked, as she 
locked the gate. 

** There ! ” exclaimed Beatrice, appealing to an imagi- 
nary audience. ** His first utterance is a defiance of my 
orders. However, I will answer that question. You are 
coming with me to Ravenhall.” 

Impressed by the oddity of her manner Idris made 
no demur but offered his arm and accepted her 
guidance. 

Their way led by a private path amid dense shrubbery : 
320 


The Vengeance of the Skull 

now and again through a long-drawn vista in the trees 
Idris caught a glimpse of the more distant portions of the 
park. 

The dusk of a lovely summer’s eve was descending 
upon the lordly terraces and verdant lawns of Ravenhall. 
Mellowed by the distance the music of a regimental band 
floated on the air. Al fresco dancing was taking place 
beside the margin of a grey -gleaming lake. Above was 
a sky of darkest blue : below, the myriad lanterns shining 
amid the dark foliage made the park appear like a scene 
from fairyland. 

Idris contemplated the picture with mixed feelings. 
If — and it was a very great “ if,” he admitted — Lorelie 
was right in asserting that he himself was the true Earl of 
Ormsby, then all this fair estate was really his. Well, he 
had resigned his claim in favour of Lorelie, and would 
not go from his word. But not till this moment did he 
fully realize the extent of the sacrifice. 

It is a gala day, I perceive,” he remarked. “ I 
learned on my way from the station that Lord Walden 
has attained his majority. He has a splendid estate in 
futuro. He ought to be a proud man to-day.” 

“ He is proud, ignorant that, like Agamemnon, he is 
treading on purple to his doom.” 

Idris was surprised at these words, surprised still more 
by the bitterness with which Beatrice emphasized them. 
What did this speech portend ? 

“ You have been living at Ravenhall for the past two 
months, I understand ? ” he remarked, for want of some- 
thing better to say. 

Yes, as Lorelie’s companion. This is our last day 
here. Lorelie and I take our departure to-night.” 

Idris was more mystified than ever. Beatrice smiled 
as if enjoying his perplexity. 

They had now reached the western wing of the man- 
21 321 


The Viking’s Skull 

sion, and Beatrice, unlocking a small door, invited Idris 
to enter. 

Am I to be smuggled in ? ” 

“ Yes, for this once. Cousin Idris.” 

“ Cousin Idris,” he repeated, emphasizing the first 
word. 

“ Did I say ‘ cousin ’ ? ” she asked, with a simulation of 
innocence. “ Well, I won’t withdraw the term. Let it 
remain.” 

Idris stared hard at her, trying to read her thoughts. 
If he were really a Ravengar it might be that he was 
Cousin to Beatrice. Was it possible that she and Lorelie 
had obtained proofs of this ? Nay, could it be true that 
he was really entitled to the earldom ? Had he been 
summoned here by Beatrice to take part in some plot by 
which the earl should be made to confess himself a 
Usurper ? Full of wonder he silently followed his guide. 
They traversed several corridors and ascended two stair- 
cases without encountering any one, a fact which led Idris 
to believe that Beatrice had prearranged matters with a 
view to keeping his visit a secret. Opening a door in an 
upper corridor Beatrice drew him forward, remarking : 
** This is our destination.” 

Idris, looking around, found himself in a dainty little 
chamber very like an opera-box in appearance, inasmuch 
as there was a sort of balcony on one side of it. Silken 
draperies prevented him from seeing into what this 
balcony projected, but from below it there came the sub- 
dued murmur of voices. 

“ We are here,” said Beatrice, to view Lorelie’s tragedy. 
It is to be acted to-night, and in this little place you and 
I will be able to witness the play unseen either by actors 
or audience.” 

Stepping forward she cautiously put the curtains aside, 
an action which disclosed the fact that they were standing 
322 


The Vengeance of the Skull 

on an elevated balcony that projected into, and looked 
down upon, a grand Gothic hall, brilliantly illuminated 
with electric light. 

Under the manipulation of carpenters and upholsterers 
the place had assumed a somewhat theatre-like aspect. 
The southern end of the hall was appropriated to the 
stage, which for the time being was hidden from view by 
the folds of a heavy curtain. The pavement of the body 
of the hall was covered with velvet carpeting. Fauteuils, 
lounges, seats of every description, were disposed here 
and there : and these were now becoming occupied by a 
number of fashionably-dressed ladies and gentlemen, the 
time fixed for the beginning of the performance being 
close at hand. 

I daresay,” said Beatrice, “ you are wondering whether 
it is reasonable on the part of Lorelie and myself to stop 
your voyage and to summon you here merely to witness 
a play ? The sequel will show. It is something more 
than a play that you are asked to witness : it is an ex- 
periment. If Lorelie were to choose a motto for her 
drama it would be the words of Hamlet : — 

“ ‘ The play’s the thing 

Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.’ ” 

“ I am altogether in the dark,” said her companion, 
lugubriously. 

Be patient. Cousin Idris, and you shall have light 
anon.” 

“ Cousin Idris again ! Come, if we really are cousins, 
I shall exercise a cousin's privilege.” 

So saying he stole his arm around her, and turned her 
pretty face upward to his own. And Beatrice, unable to 
escape, submitted her lips to his, laughing, yet feeling 
more disposed to cry, knowing full well that there was 
another whom he would much rather have kissed. 

323 


The Viking’s Skull 

She broke from his arms and essayed to hide her con- 
fusion in the study of a playbill printed on white satin. 
Of the dramatis personce^ four names only were familiar 
to Idris. 

Rosamond (Queen of the Lombards) Lady Walden. 

Alboin (King of the Lombards) Lord Walden. 

Cunimund (King of the Gepidae) Dr. G. Rothwell. 

Paulinus (a bishop) The Earl of Ormsby. 

“ The earl among the actors ? ” cried Idris in surprise. 

“ The play, as an experiment, would be a failure with- 
out him,” returned Beatrice, oracularly. “To persuade 
him to take part in it was a matter requiring very delicate 
handling on the part of Lorelie and myself. But we have 
gained our end, you see.” 

At this juncture there arose the twanging of violin- 
strings, the puffing of wind instruments, and other sounds 
preliminary to orchestral music. Then in a moment more 
the overture had begun. 

Idris, having drawn a velvet lounge to a point con- 
venient for obtaining a clearer view of the stage, seated 
Beatrice beside himself They were almost screened from 
sight by the arrangement of the silken curtains, and by a 
profusion of flowers and fernery that decorated the ex- 
terior ledge of the balcony. 

The overture was a really brilliant piece, but Beatrice 
appeared to give little heed to it. 

“ There was once,” she murmured, in a dreamy voice, 
“ there was once a son, who at the age of seven years 
promised his mother on oath that when he became a 
man he would do his utmost to clear his father’s name 
from a false charge. The son attained manhood; the 
opportunity came for proving his father’s innocence, 
and what did the son do ? Nothing ! Absolutely noth- 
ing ! ” 


324 


The Vengeance of the Skull 

“ Would you have me darken Lorelie’s name?” asked 
Idris, with a slight touch of anger in his voice. 

But without heeding this interruption Beatrice went 
on : — 

** And therefore, as you have failed in your duty, 
Lorelie herself will perform the act of justice to the dead. 
At this very hour two leading newspapers — the one in 
Paris, the other in London — are setting up the type of 
an article entitled ‘ The story of an almost forgotten 
tragedy,’ an article that will bear the signature of Lorelie 
Rochefort. To-morrow morning the world will learn 
that Eric Marville was innocent of the crime laid to his 
charge. And to-night, here, in this very hall, Lorelie 
hopes to prove who Eric Marville really was : and her 
experiment, if it terminate as she expects, will depress 
her fortune in just the same proportion as it will raise 
yours. 

And this she does by way of making atonement to 
you for her guilty silence in the matter of Eric Marville’s 
innocence. That silence was the only fault in a life oth- 
erwise noble and good ; how good no one knows so well 
as myself. But see ! the play is beginning.” 

As Beatrice spoke, the music of the orchestra stopped 
with a sudden crash. The electric light was switched off, 
leaving the body of the hall in semi-darkness. The buzz 
of conversation ceased, and amid a death-like silence the 
curtain rose on the opening act of the tragedy of Tke 
Fatal Skull. 

The first scene of this drama was styled on the play- 
bill, An audience-chamber in the palace of Cunimund.” 

Clad in barbaric splendour, and seated upon a canopied 
throne, was the royal Cunimund, in the person of God- 
frey Rothwell. On each side of him stood armed war- 
riors and venerable counsellors, among the latter being 
the earl himself in his character of Bishop Paulinus, a 

325 


The Viking’s Skull 

role for which his grave and dignified bearing seemed 
naturally adapted. 

Idris gazed upon the earl with considerable interest, 
beholding him for the first time. This was the man 
whom Lorelie — oddly enough now it seemed — had 
identified with his own father ! She had been compelled 
to admit herself in error, but was there truth in her other 
theory that the earl was the author of the deed done in 
Ormfell? He turned from the contemplation of this 
problem to listen to the words of the play. 

The opening speech of King Cunimund, addressed to 
his followers, showed that he had assembled them for the 
purpose of giving audience to a herald from the Lombard 
king, Alboin. The messenger being admitted, demanded, 
on behalf of his royal master, the hand of Cunimund's 
daughter, the fair princess Rosamond. From the herald’s 
address Alboin appeared to be a somewhat savage wooer, 
inasmuch as he was encamped with an army upon the 
frontier, prepared, in the event of refusal, to ravage the 
Gepid kingdom with fire and sword. 

“ It is for Rosamond herself to decide the question,’* 
was the just arbitrament of Cunimund, when the herald 
had finished his oration. 

So a messenger was despatched off the stage to bring 
in the princess. Then, from the right wing, to the sound 
of music soft and sweet, Lorelie entered in the character 
of Rosamond, the limelight playing with enchanting 
effect over the curves of her graceful figure and over the 
silken sheen of her dress. In Idris’ eyes she had never 
looked more lovely, her natural beauty being enhanced 
by the attractions of art. And Beatrice, watching his 
face, sighed, for she knew herself to be forgotten. 

Idris had hoped to receive a glance from Lorelie on 
her entrance, but in this he was disappointed : her whole 
soul was evidently absorbed in the part she was playing. 
326 


The Vengeance of the Skull 

With a half-smile upon her lip Rosamond listened 
while her father Cunimund briefly explained the purpose 
for which she had been summoned. Then, standing 
erect with girlish grace Rosamond pleaded, in sweet and 
maidenly language, not to be given up to the will of a 
king well known for his savage character. There was 
something so pathetic and touching in her appeal as she 
stood alone facing the rough warriors, that tears rose to 
the eyes of many ladies in the audience. It seemed not 
to be acting, but nature itself. 

Tumultuous shouts from the Gepid warriors applauded 
Rosamond’s decision, and the curtain descended upon an 
exciting tableau — the running to and fro of men, the 
buckling on of armour, and the giving of orders for the 
coming fray. 

On turning to ascertain Idris’ opinion of the first act 
Beatrice found him with a look of perplexity on his 
face. 

“ The earl ! The earl ! ” he murmured. “ Am I 
dreaming, or have I seen him before ? His attitude in 
raising his hand to his brow recalls a gesture on the part 
of some one I have known in far-off times. In his voice, 
too, there is something familiar : it is like the echo of 
one heard in my childhood.” 

Beatrice gave a faint cry of surprise. 

“ Lorelie was right, then, in her conjecture,” she said. 
“ Yes : Cousin Idris, you have seen the earl before under 
very different circumstances from the present. Patience ! 
you shall learn where ere long.” 

Quickly the curtain rose upon the second act. 

The scene represented the interior of a church by 
night. Lamps gleaming from lofty columns shed a sol- 
emn light around. 

Rosamond was present with her maidens and a few 
armed attendants. Their words showed that the Gepid 

327 


The Viking’s Skull 

army had suffered defeat. Cunimund himself was dead 
— not killed in fair and open fight, but treacherously as- 
sassinated by the bishop Paulinus, who had gone over to 
the Lombard side in the midst of the battle, carrying 
with him the head of the fallen king, and securing by 
that gift the favour of Alboin. The Lombards were now 
marching upon the Gepid capital, and Rosamond was 
seeking to elude capture by taking sanctuary. 

Vain hope ! From without came cries, the tramp of 
warriors, the clang of arms. Torches gleamed through 
the windows of the church. Rosamond’s attendants tried 
to bar the door : their feeble efforts yielded to the supe- 
rior force of the foe, and the Lombards entered the 
church with Alboin at their head, the role of that king 
being sustained by Ivar. The sanctuary became the 
scene of an unequal combat. Soon the sword glimmered 
in the grasp of the last defender, and the triumphant and 
savage Alboin seized the lovely and shrinking form of 
Rosamond. 

Not till Alboin had sworn to accomplish his purpose, 
with or without marriage, did Rosamond yield her re- 
luctant assent to become his wife. The ceremony took 
place on the spot, Paulinus himself, the traitor-bishop, 
performing the marriage-rite. 

Rosamond, half-fainting, was led by her attendant 
maidens to the altar, and holding Alboin’s hand, was 
forced to utter the words of the wedding-ritual amid the 
rude shouting of the Lombard soldiery, one of whom 
carried the head of Cunimund afifixed to the point of a 
pike. 

Language fails to convey an adequate conception of 
the wild horror displayed by Rosamond at this juncture 
in being mated to a man she loathed, and by an ecclesi- 
astic whose hands were red with her father’s blood. In 
an agony of grief and rage she mingled the holy words 
328 


The Vengeance of the Skull 

of the ritual with fierce “ asides.” She was no longer the 
sweet maiden of the first act, but a woman thirsting for 
vengeance. 

It struck Idris that the situation of Rosamond offered 
an analogy to that of Lorelie herself in being wedded to 
an uncongenial consort and living in daily communion 
with a man guilty of bloodshed. Then slowly the belief 
came over him that this emotion on her part was not a 
piece of acting, but the real expression of her feelings. 
It was no mock princess that he beheld, breathing an 
imaginary hatred against stage-foes, but a wronged 
woman animated with a deadly purpose against her hus- 
band and her father-in-law. What had happened to 
transform Lorelie’s sweet and gracious nature to this dark 
and vengeful mood ? 

“ As I live,” muttered Idris, when the curtain had de- 
scended upon the scene, “ she is importing her own per- 
sonal feelings into the piece. She hates the earl and 
Ivar, and is laying some snare for them.” 

You have hit it,” replied Beatrice. “ This play is for 
their humiliation and ruin.” 

“ How is it that her object did not reveal itself to them 
during the rehearsal ? ” 

“ Because she did not act then in the same spirit as 
now : and, moreover, she will insert some words not in 
the printed edition of her play in order to mark their 
effect upon the earl. There will be no need to ask what 
words, or for what purpose uttered : you will know as 
soon as you hear. See ! ” exclaimed Beatrice, in a voice 
trembling with suppressed excitement, “ the third act is 
beginning.” 

As the curtain ascended again a murmur of admiration 
rose from the audience at the beauty of the tableau re- 
vealed to view. The scene represented the refectory of 
a palace, and was so arranged that the actual walls of the 

329 


The Viking’s Skull 

Gothic hall in which the audience sat formed the wings 
and rear of the stage scenery, thus producing an effect 
more realistic than could have been attained by painted 
canvas. A spacious and splendid arched casement facing 
the audience made a part of this refectory ; the scene had 
been purposely timed with regard to the moon’s course, 
and it was no mock planet, but the real silver orb of 
night that shone through the panes of stained glass from 
a sky of darkest blue. The moonlight without con- 
trasted curiously with the glow cast by the lamps pendent 
from the vaulted roof of the supposed banqueting hall. 

A feast was taking place, given by King Alboin to 
celebrate his victory over Cunimund. Historically speak- 
ing, the memorable and fatal banquet with which the 
name of Rosamond is associated, happened several years 
after the defeat of the Gepid king, but for the sake of 
dramatic effect Lorelie had represented it as the immedi- 
ate consequence of that defeat. 

Robed in purple, and with a jewelled diadem upon his 
head, sat Alboin, and beside him, and now his chief 
counsellor, the traitor-bishop Paulinus, whose episcopal 
attire was stiff with brocade and gems. Disposed along 
the board with picturesque effect were the Lombard chiefs 
and warriors, all arrayed in gleaming mail. 

The royal table glittered with a profusion of plate. 
The shelves of a carved oaken sideboard were filled with 
a variety of golden and silver vessels. The stage twin- 
kled with so many dazzling points of light that it became 
hurtful to gaze too long upon it. All the Ravengar 
heirlooms were being paraded in this banqueting-scene, 
probably to impress the visitors with the extent of the 
Ravengar wealth. 

“ Are those jewels, and is that plate real ? ” muttered 
Idris, examining them through a lorgnette. 

‘‘All genuine, and not stage-property. I was once 

330 


The Vengeance of the Skull 

promised,” murmured Beatrice in a dreamy manner, I 
was once promised a moiety of that wealth. — I wonder. 
Cousin Idris, whether you will keep your word : for it is 
all yours, or soon will be.” 

Idris did not catch the last part of her utterance, but 
he had heard enough to understand whence came all this 
display. 

“ The Viking’s treasure ! ” he cried in wonderment. 
“ But that blue-gleaming cup that the earl is lifting to his 
lips ! — that cannot be a sapphire : it must be coloured 
glass.” 

“ It is a real gem, I assure you. Isn’t it a lovely thing? 
There cannot be its equal in the wide world. And think 
of it! Ivar was on the point of selling it, and other 
rarities, but fortunately, Lorelie stopped him in time. 
But I’ll reserve that story.” 

The walls of the supposed banqueting hall were hung 
with tapestry, sufficient in length to drape both the wings 
and the background. This arras, decorated with figures 
in needlework, was obviously very ancient, apparently 
one of the Ravengar heirlooms employed to give an air 
of antiquity to the refectory-scene. 

It was somewhat difficult to obtain a clear view of this 
tapestry owing to the intervention of the banqueting- 
table and the picturesque figures grouped around it ; but, 
bringing his lorgnette to bear upon such parts of it as 
were visible, Idris observed that one of its needlework 
pictures was subscribed with the words : — Ormus 
Hildam Nubit.” 

Orm weds Hilda,” he muttered. “ By heaven ! that 
is the tapestry that once decorated the interior of the 
Viking’s tomb ! ” 

“ True,” returned Beatrice. “ But — we are losing the 
words of the play.” 

This last was quite true. So occupied had Idris been 

331 


The Viking's Skull 

in contemplating the scenic effects, that he had not yet 
caught a word of the act then in progress. 

Fixing his attention upon the dialogue Idris noticed 
that Alboin (or Ivar) was inviting his companions-in- 
arms to drink to their recent victory. While speaking 
he lifted on high his own goblet, a goblet of a very curi- 
ous character, for it was fashioned from a human skull, 
supposedly that of the fallen Cunimund. The upper 
portion of the cranium had been sawn off, and being at- 
tached to the lower part by silver hinges, formed the lid 
of the grim drinking-vessel. 

“ Do you recognize the relic taken by you from 
Ormfell ? ” asked Beatrice. 

That cup is not the ‘ Viking’s ’ skull,” returned Idris 
decisively, as he surveyed it through his glasses. ** Its 
colour is white: mine was a yellowish-brown. Now, 
notice the lid ; it is lifted and turned towards us : it 
ought to contain a circular perforation, but there is 
none, you see. Trust me, I know my relic too well to 
be deceived.” 

“You are quite right. Cousin Idris: the cup nowin 
Ivar’s hands is not the ‘ Viking’s ’ skull ; being merely 
the one used in the rehearsal. It would have been a be- 
traying of her purpose had Lorelie employed the real relic, 
but it will make its appearance soon.” 

She turned her attention to the dialogue again, and 
Idris did the same, wondering what the end of it 
would be. 

Extending the skull-cup to a slave, Ivar-Alboin cried, 
in the words of history : — 

“ Fill this goblet to the brim : carry it to the queen, and 
bid her in my name drink to the memory of her father.” 

The attendant poured wine into the cup and carried it 
off the stage for the purpose of presenting it to Queen 
Rosamond. And pre-informed by Beatrice Idris knew 

332 


The Vengeance of the Skull 

that the goblet carried out would not be the same as that 
which would be brought in. Lorelie would enter with 
the identical skull taken from Ormfell. Why should 
this be ? He awaited the sequel with breathless interest, 
an interest that would have been far more intense had 
he known with what person Godfrey had connected this 
same skull. But some things had been kept from the 
knowledge of Idris, and this was one of them. 

The advent of Queen Rosamond was heralded by 
music of a singular character. The softer and more 
melodious instrument ceased, and there arose a threnody 
drawn entirely from violin-chords and from the metallic 
wires of the harp — a threnody that was staccato, 
shivering, weird. The faint whisperings which had been 
going on here and there among the audience instantly 
ceased : every one sat spellbound, thrilled with awe by 
that unearthly music, as if it were a prelude to the 
entrance of Death himself. 

Idris recognized the air as the requiem that was never 
heard except at the death of a Ravengar. That it should 
now be played seemed suggestive of some coming 
tragedy. He learned from Beatrice that this requiem 
had formed no part of the rehearsals : and, indeed, the 
wondering looks interchanged among the amateurs on 
the stage showed that it came upon them as a surprise. 
Idris was not slow to mark the perturbed air of the earl- 
bishop. If it were Lorelie’s object to unnerve him, she 
had to some extent succeeded. 

Amid this eerie refrain Queen Rosamond slowly en- 
tered the banqueting hall, carrying in her hands the dread 
cup, the fatal skull of her father Cunimund. The eyes 
of every one, both on and off the stage, were riveted 
upon her movements. She had exhibited splendid act- 
ing in the two previous scenes ; was she now about to 
surpass herself? 


333 


The Viking’s Skull 

She was robed in a vesture of violet satin, embroidered 
with gold, that shimmered as she moved ; and in her 
flowing raven hair there gleamed an ornament that gave 
Idris a thrill of surprise, for he immediately recognized 
it as the stiletto hair-pin that had wrought the fatal deed 
in Ormfell. 

By aid of the lorgnette he surveyed the object she was 
carrying. Yes: that golden-brown thing was indeed 
the ‘ Viking’s skull,’ set in silver, and mounted as a cup 
— a cup in appearance only, for the cranium was perfect 
and entire, and had not been fashioned into a lid. 

Rosamond had entered through an arched door in the 
wall on the right-hand side of the stage. Ivar-Alboin’s 
throne was on the extreme left, and therefore to reach 
him it was necessary to traverse the entire length of the 
stage. 

Slowly, very slowly, she advanced with silent and 
majestic tread, holding aloft the fatal skull. 

To Idris, the moment was one of thrilling interest. He 
felt that the crucial point of the experiment had come : 
the object for which Lorelie had caused her play to be 
staged was now about to be disclosed. 

Not a word passed Lorelie’s lips as she moved forward, 
the ghostly tremolo music going on all the time. She 
looked neither to right nor left : she had eyes for one 
person only, and that was the earl, and him she regarded 
with the air of a triumphant accuser. 

And the earl, observant of her manner, and always sus- 
picious of her since that memorable night in the vault, 
dreading lest she should have divined his purpose in 
taking her there, grew troubled. It began to dawn upon 
him that Lorelie had an ulterior purpose in staging her 
play, a purpose fraught with ill to himself. His eye 
rested on the skull she was carrying : he noted the dif- 
ference, yet no inkling of her real aim entered his mind. 
334 


The Vengeance of the Skull 

He stared at her, trying to read her thoughts : she re- 
turned his gaze : their looks became a silent duel. 

At last she reached the place where Alboin sat. The 
shivering music came to an end, enabling her voice to be 
heard. 

“ Ere I comply with my lord-king’s request,” she said, 
addressing Ivar, and using the words of the play, “ let 
me learn from whose skull I drink.” 

She set the relic upon the table, keeping one hand over 
the cranium. Idris felt that she did this for the purpose 
of hiding the fatal perforation. But though her words 
were addressed to Ivar, she did not for one moment re- 
move her eyes from the earl’s face. 

“ It is the skull of thy late sire, the royal Cunimund.” 

“ Not so, husband mine,” she cried, with a sudden 
change of voice that startled everybody present, actors 
and spectators alike, “ not so ! Let us leave acting and 
be real. — Tell me, my lord of Ravenhall,” she said, 
bending over the table and addressing the earl in a thrill- 
ing sibilant whisper that penetrated to every part of the 
hall, “ tell mCy whose skull is this 

She withdrew her hand from the skull and pointed to 
the orifice in the cranium. 

A strange gasp broke from the earl. He cast one 
glance of fear at Lorelie, and then sat with parted lips 
and dilated eyes staring at the thing before him. Lo- 
relie’s significant manner, his own guilty conscience, the 
circular perforation in the occiput, were sufficient to tell 
him whose skull it was. In one swift awful moment he 
realized that his secret was known to the woman whom 
he had most reason to fear, and he intuitively divined 
that she was about to make it known to all present. 
And then ? He gasped for breath ; his throat seemed 
to be compressed : he twitched at it with his fingers as 
if to loosen some tightly-drawn noose. 

335 


The Viking’s Skull 

He knew now why she had shewn such persistency in 
urging him to take part in the play. “ Only a minor 
part, a few words to utter, nothing more," had been her 
plea. He knew now why she had flattered, insisted, 
threatened : her motive was to surprise and confuse him : 
to entrap him into a confession by suddenly producing 
the skull before his eyes. 

And she had nearly succeeded. Sudden amazement 
had almost wrung the secret from him. He compressed 
his lips tightly : he must not speak, lest by some incau- 
tious word he should betray himself. Silence ! Silence ! 
there lay his safety. With such cunning had he overlaid 
all traces of the crime that it could not be proved except 
by his own confession. • 

The audience, after a glance at the play-book, looked 
at each other in bewilderment, wondering why the vis- 
countess had departed from the written words of her 
drama. Instead of playing as finely as heretofore she 
had actually committed the gross blunder of addressing 
the Bishop Paulinus as, My lord of Ravenhall ! " 

Receiving no answer to her question, for the earl sat 
silent and motionless, Lorelie rested her hand upon the 
table, lightly shook the sleeve of her silken dress, and the 
next moment the runic altar-ring was sparkling on her 
wrist. 

“ By the sacred ring of Odin, stolen by you from 
Edith Breakspear, I adjure you, speak ! Whose skull is 
this?" 

Something like a groan issued from the earl’s lips. 
So, his theft of the ring was likewise known to this ter- 
rible woman ! — a theft committed so long ago that it had 
almost faded from his memory ; and, lo ! here the deed 
was, starting up to confront him after a lapse of twenty- 
three years ! 

For a moment he forgot his present position: the 

336 


The Vengeance of the Skull 

stage, the lights, the audience, all were gone. He found 
himself again in that quiet twilight chamber at Quilaix ; 
again he saw the sad eyes, the pale face of the woman 
from whom he had taken the ring : again her solemn ut- 
terance sounded in his ears : — “If it should bring upon 
you the curse which it has brought upon me and mine, 
you will live to rue this day.” 

The voice of Lorelie speaking again, roused him from 
his reverie. 

“ By this hoarded treasure, gained at the price of blood, 
I adjure you, speak ! Whose skull is this ? ” 

Mechanically his eyes wandered over the festal-board 
with its array of plate and jewels. The splendid parade 
of wealth made his present position only the more 
ghastly. Like a spectre from the tomb Nemesis arose 
to mock him amid the very riches which his guilt had 
purchased. 

A silence had fallen both upon actors and audience. 
They had begun to catch a glimpse of the true meaning 
of this strange tableau. As motionless as statues they 
sat : they scarcely breathed : it would have required an 
earthquake or the conflagration of the hall itself to have 
moved them. 

In silent despair the earl looked around upon the array 
of still faces set with earnest attention upon him, and 
then he turned again to the skull. All lifeless as it was, 
it was victor over him to-day. It seemed to be grinning 
at him in conscious mockery. Powerless itself to speak 
it had found a mouthpiece, an avenger, in the person of 
Lorelie. 

Why had he allowed this woman to leave the secret 
vault, where her life had been in his hands ? He might 
have known that she would never rest till she had 
avenged herself upon him. 

He looked into the depth of her dark blue eyes — 

22 337 


The Viking’s Skull 

eyes that were steeled to pity. ‘‘ Like for like/’ they 
seemed to say : she would show him the same mercy that 
he would have shown her, though in truth, Lorelie 
thought not of herself, but of the dead Eric Marville, so 
cruelly wronged both by her father and herself: Eric 
Marville, who had generously refrained from claiming the 
peerage justly his in order that the present earl might 
enjoy it. And he had received his death-stroke from the 
hand of the very man whom he had benefited ! Was 
this a case for pity ! 

“ By yon tapestry, silent witness of the deed, I adjure 
you, speak ! Whose skull is this ? ” 

A portion of the arras within view of the earl was 
clutched from behind by an unseen hand, and was sud- 
denly rent in twain from top to bottom with a sharp 
ripping sound: then came the fall of some dull body, 
(though nothing was seen by the audience), followed by 
a faint soughing like an expiring breath. 

The earl shook convulsively. The very sounds that 
had accompanied the fall of his victim in Ormfell ! 

With slow motion Lorelie raised her hand to her head. 
The earl followed her action with his eyes, wondering 
what new terror was in store for him. Drawing the 
broken stiletto pin from her hair she placed the fragment 
of the blade within the orifice of the skull, where it re- 
mained, the jewelled hilt projecting above, and glittering 
with weird effect. 

“^By the very stiletto that let out the life of your 
victim, I adjure you, speak ! Whose skull is this ? ” 

She was determined to have her answer, and that 
openly. 

In darkness and secrecy the deed had been wrought : 
amid brilliant light and before a crowd of hearers the 
truth should be proclaimed. Like some struggling 
victim in the torture-chamber, who, doggedly speech- 
338 


The Vengeance of the Skull 

less, is forced onward to the rack that will soon wring 
the confession from his reluctant lips, so the earl, in 
dumb agony, felt himself drawn onward to tell the dread 
secret of his life. 

The jewelled hilt of the stiletto protruding from the 
skull exercized a fascination over him : he could not take 
his gaze from it : like a gleaming eye it seemed to be 
commanding him to admit his guilt. 

Idris, attentive to every variation in the face of the 
earl, saw that he was sinking into a cataleptic state. 
Unable to obtain the required confession in any other 
way Lorelie had resorted to her knowledge of 
hypnotism, and had found the earl powerless to resist 
her mesmeric influence. 

Speak ! Whose skull is this ? ” she asked once 
more. 

“ My brother sy 

The earl spoke like an automaton, in a tone, cold, 
mechanical, passionless — a tone he maintained through- 
out the whole of his subsequent answering. 

A wave of surprise passed over the audiejice. Till 
that moment it had not been known that Urien 
Ravengar, the preceding earl, had had more than one 
son. 

When did your brother die ? " 

Twenty-one years ago.” 

“ In what place did he die ? ” 

In the interior of Ormfell.” 

« How came he to die ? ” 

** I killed hint ! ” 

At this answer a thrill prevaded the assembly. Half- 
articulate screams arose from the ladies. From fair 
jewelled hands play-bills and books of the words slid to 
the floor. There they lay unheeded, being no longer 
required. The sham-tragedy was over : a new and un- 
339 


The Viking’s Skull 

rehearsed drama of real life was taking place before 
their eyes, and the audience bent forward to watch and 
to listen. 

Ivar, with a troubled look, rose at this point and made 
an attempt to stay Lorelie’s action. 

** Let down the curtain," he cried to an attendant in 
the wings. What devil’s work is this ? ’’ he continued, 
turning fiercely upon his wife. ** Let it cease 1 Restore 
my father to his normal state. You have mesmerized 
him, and, mistress of his mind, you are making him say 
whatever you wish. Do you think that any one here be- 
lieves him?" 

One word from her, one imperious gesture, one flash 
of her eyes, was sufficient to quell Ivar’s opposition. 

Malvazia ! " she whispered, pointing to the sapphire 

cup. 

The viscount shrank back, knowing that the hour of 
his fall and humiliation was at hand. 

“ Let none intervene," said Lorelie, addressing her 
audience with quiet dignity. 

And during the remainder of the scene there was 
neither movement nor sound on the part of the 
spectators, not even from Idris and Ivar, the two persons 
most interested in the dialogue. 

In cold measured tones Lorelie proceeded with her 
merciless catechism. 

“ Was he a younger brother ? " 

“ My senior by three years." 

“ Why was he not acknowledged by your father, the 
late earl ? " 

He was the son of a secret marriage — a marriage 
with a village maiden named Agnes Marville." 

Where can the record of this marriage be found ? " 

In the parish church of Oakhurst in Kent." 

Your father did not tell this Agnes that he was a 

340 


The Vengeance of the Skull 

peer of the realm : and, as soon as a son was born, he 
deserted her : nay, more, while she was still living he 
made a second marriage, which, therefore, renders your 
own birth illegitimate. Is not this so ? ” 

- Yes.” 

When did the son of this Agnes discover that he was 
the rightful heir of Ravenhall ? ” 

“ On attaining manhood.” 

“ What course did he take ? ” 

“He wrote a letter to my father to the effect that as 
that father had repudiated him in infancy he on his part 
would accept the repudiation.” 

“ And so, waiving his just rights, he went to live in 
Brittany under the name of Eric Marville. Why did 
you, too, leave England about the same time ? ” 

“ The letter written by Eric fell into my hands and 
caused a quarrel between my father and myself.” 

“ Did you, when abroad, ever see your half-brother ? ” 
“ During his trial I stood among the spectators.” 

“ Did you not make yourself known to him ? ” 

“ No, for I hated him.” 

“ Did you show your hatred in any way ? ” 

“ I secretly promised his prosecuting counsel a large 
sum if he should secure a conviction.” 

“ How long did you remain abroad ? ” 

“ Ten years.” 

“ And by a strange coincidence on the very night of 
your return to Ravenhall your brother’s yacht went down 
in Ormsby Race. You believed he had gone down with 
it, till ?” 

“ Till he surprised me in Ormfell as I was in the act of 
removing the treasure.” 

“ Let us hear what took place.” 

“ We quarrelled. He had discovered the part I had 
played in the trial at Nantes, and also that it was I who 

341 


The Viking’s Skull 

had taken the runic ring from his wife. He threatened 
to assert his claim to the earldom, and so I struck him 
down with a stiletto hair-pin, the only weapon I had 
upon me at the time." 

** How did you dispose of the body ? " 

I left it, covered with quicklime, in Ormfell, so that, 
if ever discovered, it might be taken for the remains of 
some ancient warrior." 

“ Did your brother have any children ? " 

“ One son." 

“ Who is, of course, the rightful earl of Ormsby. By 
what name is this son known ? " 

“ Idris Breakspear." 

Lorelie put no more questions. She had discovered 
what she wished. Light had been cast on dark places 
and all was clear. She had made her atonement to 
Idris : and, with a significant glance at the balcony where 
he sat, she waved her hand, and at that signal the curtain 
descended. 

Ere the amazed audience had time to exchange re- 
marks the earl’s voice was again heard, proceeding from 
the other side of the curtain. 

“ What do you say, Ivar ? " he cried, in wild staccato 
utterances. “ I have accused myself ... of mur- 
der ? . . . That my title . . . and yours . . . 

are invalid ? It is false ! . . . Gentlemen, I am not 

responsible ... for my utterances . . . This 

woman hates me . . . She is a hypnotizer . . , 

has taken my mind captive . . . made me say . . . 

whatever suits her purpose . . . Pay no heed to 

anything I have said ... in this state . . . 

of " 

His utterance was checked by a fit of coughing, fol- 
lowed by a strange gasp, and then all was still. 

The next moment one of the amateur actors appeared 

342 


The Vengeance of the Skull 

at the side of the stage-curtain and beckoned to Godfrey, 
who, his part having ceased with the first act, had taken 
his place amongst the audience. The surgeon passed 
behind the curtain, then quickly reappeared. 

“ Get the company away as quickly as can be man- 
aged,” he whispered to the steward of Ravenhall, *• the 
earl is dead ! ” 


343 


CHAPTER XX 


FINALE 

“ r I AHE earl dead!” murmured Beatrice in a tone 
I of awe. Death ! That was no part of Lore- 
JL lie’s design.” And, after a brief pause, she 
added, “ It is the judgment of God.” 

Awe-struck by the terrible ending of the play the 
whispering guests began a hurried departure. Idris, 
however, at Godfrey’s suggestion, remained behind. 

The body of Olave Ravengar, ««-lawful Earl of 
Ormsby, was carried to the chamber usually assigned to 
the lying-in-state of the dead lords of Ravenhall. 

Having attended to this duty Ivar, passing through 
the entrance-hall, suddenly caught sight of Idris in con- 
versation with Godfrey. 

For a moment he stared superciliously at his rival. 

“ Impostor ! ” he muttered, with affected indignation. 
“John! Roger!” he continued, addressing two tall 
footmen who stood near, “ put this fellow outside the 
park gates.” 

“ Perhaps,” said Godfrey, quietly, “ as your title is at 
present in question, it will be well to wait till it be legally 
ascertained whether you have the right to give orders 
here.” 

Ivar scowled, first at the speaker, then at the throng 
of mute and immovable servants, who showed little dis- 
position to acknowledge his authority. 

His mind reverted to Lorelie, the author of this, his 
downfall: had she chosen to keep his secret he might 
have retained his usurped rank. She should suffer for 
344 


Finale 


this : she at least was his, if Ravenhall were not, and he 
would exercise his authority by applying a horsewhip to 
her shoulders. It would be a pleasure to hear her 
screams! Yes: he would do it, though his father were 
lying dead in the house. There was an additional pleas- 
ure in the thought that by subjecting Lorelie to indignity 
and humiliation he would be mortifying Idris. 

“ Where is Lady Walden ? ” he demanded, turning 
upon one of the servants. “ I must,” he continued, 
with an ugly smile at Idris, “ I must have a word with 
her.” 

“ Your wife — she repudiates the title of Lady Walden 
— is now at Wave Crest,” replied Godfrey. “ I am de- 
sired by her to state that you will never see her again.” 

Indeed ? ” sneered Ivar, haughtily. “ She shall re- 
turn. A wife’s place is by her husband’s side.” 

“ That sentiment comes with an ill grace from an 
adulterer who once offered his wife poison to drink,” re- 
sponded Godfrey. 

Ivar grew white to the very lips. 

“ What do you mean ? ” he muttered. “ O, I see ! 
Some wild accusation of Lorelie’s. Honourable gentle- 
men, ye are I ” he continued, with an assumption of dig- 
nity that sat somewhat awkwardly upon him. “ Honour- 
able gentlemen, to corrupt a wife, and use her as a tool 
against her husband I This stage-play of to-night, this 
hypnotizing of my father’s mind, this forcing him to utter 
whatever you wish, has been very finely arranged on the 
part of you all. It is a plot to deprive me of my rights. 
You shall hear what my solicitor has to say on the matter. 
It is one thing to claim an estate, and another to make 
good the claim.” 

Quite so,” replied Godfrey, who acted as spokesman 
for Idris, since the latter was too much bewildered by 
the novelty and strangeness of his position to say any- 
345 


The Viking’s Skull 

thing : “ quite so. And therefore we have invited your 
solicitor to an interview with us to-morrow morning 
at ten o'clock in the library, when I trust you will be 
present, for we shall offer you abundant proofs of our 
position.” 

On the following morning Ivar repaired to the library, 
where he found the late earl’s solicitor in company with 
Idris and Godfrey. 

Ivar was well aware that Idris was the rightful heir of 
Ravenhall. His only hope was that the other might find 
it impossible to prove the legitimacy of his title. But in 
this he was quickly doomed to disappointment. 

With a face that grew darker and darker he listened to 
the evidence that had been accumulated by the joint 
labours of Lorelie and Beatrice. The prior and secret 
marriage of the old earl, Urien Ravengar, with the village 
maiden, Agnes Marville : the birth of a child named Eric, 
together with Idris’ legitimate filiation to the latter, were 
all clearly set forth. 

The lawyer was at first disposed to be sceptical, but 
became fully convinced in the end. 

“ I fear it is of no use to dispute the evidence,” he 
whispered to Ivar. “ Contest the claim and you're sure 
to lose. Better to appeal to the generosity of your new- 
found cousin and heir, and try to come to some monetary 
arrangement with him.” 

Ivar sat for a few minutes in moody silence. Then, 
looking up and scowling at Idris, he muttered : — 

“ If I've got to give up Ravenhall, I may as well 
go at once. I won't be beholden to that fellow for a 
roof.” 

“ Surely you will remain till your father's funeral shall 
have taken place ? ” said Idris. 

“ Damn the funeral ! ” muttered the late viscount, 
savagely. What good shall I do myself by waiting for 
346 


Finale 


it ? Will it bring the governor back to life ? I’ll not 
stay here to be pitied, and jeered at, as the discoroneted 
viscount. You killed my father by your wiles. You 
yourselves can now bury him.” 

And with these words he passed through the door- 
way and was gone : and even the coroner’s summons 
failed to secure his attendance at the inquest held upon 
the body of the earl. Lorelie was present, and, after 
giving her evidence, quietly withdrew, accompanied by 
Beatrice. 

But when Idris, a few hours later, called at Wave 
Crest, he was met on the threshold by Beatrice with the 
tidings that Lorelie had left Ormsby. 

“ Where has she gone ? ” 

Indeed I do not know,” replied Beatrice, who looked 
the picture of grief. She would not tell me her desti- 
nation or plans. I did my best to persuade her to stay, 
but in vain.” 

* JK 5fe * 5K ♦ 

A year after Lorelie’s disappearance there occurred in 
a society-paper a paragraph relative to an event which, 
however melancholy in itself, could scarcely be viewed by 
Idris with any other feeling than that of satisfaction. 
This event was the death of Ivar, who was said to have 
been carried off by fever in an obscure lodging in Lon- 
don. Inquiries on the part of Idris proved that the story 
was true : and he found, moreover, that Ivar, in his last 
hours, had been nursed by a lady whose description an- 
swered to that of Lorelie. 

The forgiving and generous disposition evinced by this 
act did but endear her the more to Idris. 

But where was she ? He was certain that she loved 
him. Why then did she continue to hide herself? 

All attempts on his part to trace her failed completely : 

347 


The Viking’s Skull 

and a haunting fear seized him that she had retired for 
life to the seclusion of a French convent. 

Two years went by, and Idris had almost given up the 
hope of ever seeing her again, when, passing one after- 
noon by the Church of St. Oswald, he heard the sound 
of its organ. 

Attracted, partly by the music, partly by the thought 
that it was in this church that he had first set eyes upon 
Lorelie, he entered the Ravengar Chantry, and sat down 
to listen. 

Something in the style of the music caused a strange 
suspicion to steal over him. He rose, walked quietly 
forward, and gazed up at the organ-loft. 

The musician was Lorelie ! 

Screening himself from view he waited till she had 
finished her playing: waited till she had dismissed her 
attendant-boy, and then quietly intercepted her as she 
was passing through the Ravengar Chantry. 

She started, and seemed almost dismayed at seeing him. 

“I — I did not know you were at Ormsby,” she mur- 
mured. “ I thought you were on the Continent." 

“ Lorelie, where have you been so long ? " 

** I have been living in the south of France for the past 
two years. A few days ago a longing came upon me to 
see Ormsby once more, and " 

She ceased speaking, and her eyes drooped as Idris 
gently held her by the wrists. 

“ And now that you are here," he said, “ do you think 
that I shall ever let you go again ? Lorelie, you know 
how much I love you. Why, then, have you avoided 
me ? But for you I should not now possess a coronet : is 
it not fair that you should share it ? " 

No : Idris, this must not be," she murmured, gently 
essaying to free herself. “ There is one who loves you 
better than I — one more deserving of your love." 

348 


Finale 


“ And who is that ? ” 

“ Beatrice.” 

And is it on her account that you have absented 
yourself so long, willing to sacrifice your own happiness » 
to hers ? Lorelie, you are too generous. Beatrice is in- 
deed a charming and pretty maiden, and had I never 
seen you I might perhaps have loved her. I had the 
conceit that she might be growing fond of me, so I took 
steps to cure her of the fancy.” 

“ How ? ” asked Lorelie, with wondering eyes. 

“ By showing her that there are much finer fellows than 
myself in existence. With Godfrey’s consent I took her 
to London. At Ormsby I was a hero in her eyes, for 
there were few here with whom she might measure me : 
but in London it was different. ‘ Pretty Miss Ravengar ’ 
became quite an attraction in Society. Eligible young 
men surrounded her, eager for a glance and a smile : and 
— well — to make my story short, next spring we shall 
have to address our little Trixie as Lady St. Cyril. She 
will have half the Viking’s treasure as her dowry. And 

so, you see, my sweet countess ” 

Their lips drew near and met in one long, clinging 
kiss. 

In the circle of Idris' arms Lorelie found a refuge from 
all her past troubles. Fair and clear before her the future 
lay like a sunny sparkling lake with one barque gliding 
over it : Idris was the steersman, and she had nothing to 
do but to lie back on silken pillows, still and happy, and 
float wherever he chose to direct. 


THE END 


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